The Art of the Wize
by MrsRJLupin
Summary: In progress. Cecilia Frobisher is living a new life having change the past. As such a better understanding between wizards and muggles has arisen. No Harry being attacked as a baby. No Death Eaters or Lord V so AU, just to spell it out . Enjoy!
1. Prologue: The Story that Was

DISCLAIMER: ALL OF THE CHARACTERS AND SCENARIOS BELONG TO JKR AND/OR WARNER BROS.

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Cecilia Frobisher is not where she had been.

She had been happily unmarried to Remus Lupin and had been living quietly in their cottage in the Lake District waiting for their time to get wed. She had helped the Order of the Phoenix to formulate a potion with a scientific foundation in collaboration with Severus Snape for Harry Potter in order for him to successfully fight and defeat Lord Voldermort.

It had been successful, but not as successful as everyone had hoped. Continuing her work Cecilia had been in the process of refining what she and Snape had been working on in light of a genetic influence of magic upon wizards and had, in addition and quite unexpectedly, formulated a possible scientific hypothesis as to why werewolves are adversely influenced by the full moon and why the "Wolfsbane" potion works to a certain extent.

For his part as a Recipricator, Albus Dumbledore had been put on trial in the Ministry of Magic, had been told to "oblivate" Cecilia's memory and not to operate as a Reciprocator again. When he refuses, dementors are sent to Cecilia at the cottage but before they had arrived Snape appeared unexpectedly and had made off with her in the nick of time as Death Eaters surrounded the cottage.

Tabitha Penwright, who now worked in the Ministry for Magic under Dolores Umbrage, had, later than most, discovered she was a witch, but quite a bad one. She had a gift for interpreting magical artefacts, a Mysteriour, so Tabitha's job in the Department of Mysteries suited her perfectly. Her brother however, a muggle, had been contacted by Death Eaters and Cecilia's friend, Libby and her husband, Derek had been murdered by him, leaving Freya, their daughter an orphan who Tonks and Nick Smith (a muggle scientist) had taken in.

Meanwhile Cecilia worked undercover as a tutor for none other than Dudley Dursley, whose new best friend, Darren Malloy, bore a remarkable resemblance to a white-haired young wizard we all know (and Harry despises) and who has been sent by his family to Dudley's school in order to undercover what he could from Dudley. It was only a matter of time before he discovered Cecilia's true identity.

On doing so, Cecilia, having figured out that Petunia Dursley had also magical gifts, but had turned her back on them because of her feelings towards how her parents had treated Lily more favourably to her and, on receiving a Hogwarts letter later on in her teens, had rejected it, having had a brief liaison with Regulus Lupin and thus calling in Dudley's paternity into question.

Cecilia fled to London, having encountered a Dementor along the way, which robbed her of her and Remus's child and, after a time in hospital arrived at Grimmauld Place and to Sirius. Remus, under Dolores Umbrage's new powers to eliminate halfbreeds had been arrested (as well as her tyrannical powers at Hogwarts). Sirius has a plan that involves going behind the veil at the Department of Mysteries, to change a memory and thus, the future. Cecilia insists she is the one to go.

By interacting with them memories behind the veil Cecilia had managed to stop Joseph Black from decrying the role of the Reciprocator as a link between wizard and muggle as illegal; stop Voldermort from therefore arising and therefore Harry not losing his parents and stopping the werewolf, Remus is not a werewolf anymore as she had thrown herself into Fenrir Greyback's path between him and her beloved.

When Cecilia was pulled from behind the veil, beyond was a world that she recognised but with obvious mistakes. Caelius Lupin, Remus's brother not only lived but was a senior ministry figure. Aberforth Dumbledore, not Albus, held the esteemed position as both headmaster of Hogwarts and head of the Reciprocators, not quite a secret society (as they interacted with and liaised between muggles and wizards) and whose members were not dissimilar to those of the Order of the Phoenix.

Severus Snape is now not a Death Eater and is living with Tabitha Penwright. Harry has a younger brother, Sam. Aberforth knows a little of Cecilia's history and where she has come from.

Caelius Lupin and Aberforth Dumbledore fear that the action of Albus and his partner Grindelwald would soon be a problem that they needed to challenge head-on and soon.

Cecilia fell in love with Remus in time (it _had_ to happen!), though he is not quite the same as the Remus from the…other side…(as he is no longer a werewolf) and it is the consequences of this which begin the events of this story…


	2. The Story that Was

It was the day before the night before Harry Potter's 28th birthday, a warm Thursday afternoon, just after half past five in the afternoon. This afternoon Harry was walking, rather than flying, flooing or apparating because of such gloriousness of the weather and he was walking towards the underground station closest to the closest entrance to his office within the Ministry of Magic.

Despite its ordinariness and nondescriptness of the Ministry, it being just one of the many ministries of the government of the United Kingdom, its situation, below ground, had endured. It made for a good talking point when tourists were brought round to see the main entrance, with wizards and witches arriving by floo of a morning, or paper arrow memoranda flying around all over the place and the small but increasingly common non-wizard paraphernalia designed to help those non-wizards employed there to do their jobs

Harry descended the steps to the station below, past commuters and passengers, mothers holding their children's hands. He had skipped past a couple of elderly people, one of whom faltered on the step, half way up the flight. She would surely have plummeted to a serious accident at the bottom had Harry not whipped out his wand and shouted, "Glisseo!" At once, the steps turned into a ramp and the old lady slipped down the last five steps to the platform level, where she lay on her stomach for a few moments, obviously dazed.

Not the best spell to have chosen, Harry decided as he hurried down the now-reformed steps to help the lady to her feet. "Impedimenta" may have been a better choice, "Wingardium Leviosa" or "Mobilocorpus". But neither of these had come to mind speedily enough. He gripped the lady's coat and let her hold onto him before Harry helped her to her feet.

Behind him her husband hurried up behind Harry and imitated him helping her up, as if it should really be his job, but encouraged Harry with words such as, "well done, young man. Quick thinking with the old wand there." When his wife, a small, rotund lady, had been returned to the tall man's arm he grinned at Harry.

"You're a wizard, eh?" He followed Harry's wand as he stowed it into his waistband behind his cloak. Harry nodded and smiled to the man, slowly and politely as one does to elderly people. "You didn't see many of 'em in my day. Kept to yerselves, yer did," he added. "Hardly knew ye were around, except for the banging and crashing, and sometimes on the radio a couple of yer would be rousin' the coppers, like, for near killin yerselves. Ha ha!" Next to him, his wife, seemingly having overcome her exciting slide down to the station platform, nudged him sharply. "But that's all fine, of course," he added hastily. "Thank you for helping my Bessie here. She could have come off quite bad, quite bad indeed, yes."

"It was nothing," Harry added, blushing a little and realising that several people, including a handful who had witnessed the scene, were gathering and milling around them.

"Thank you, young man," added Bessie, smiling gratefully. The old man took his wife's arm and took a step past Harry, tapping the edge of his flat cap deferentially. Harry turned and watched them go momentarily in the direction of "Embankment" before taking his route to the other platform to catch the tube to "Charing Cross".

Continuing on the Bakerloo line Harry would have to change at Marylebone to Baker Street on the Metropolitan line before finding himself in the north-west of the city twenty minutes later and getting off at Northwick Park. There, in Grimmauld Place, headquarters of the Reciprocator movement (and a misnamed place for, while old, it was far from grim), he would find his parents and his sixteen-year-old brother Sam waiting for him, probably with a whole host of his friends too, for a "quiet tea, Harry, nothing too big, just to see you before your big day." Famous last words, mother, Harry considered with a grin

As he waited for the smooth glide of the underground train to pass him by and throw open its doors, allowing a tumult of people to spill forth from its carriages, an unbidden thought sprang into his mind. How odd it would be for non-wizards not to know about wizards and magic? The elderly man he had just met had been surprised that he had used magic to assist his wife. But he had been unusual in that he thought in the past, to a time where magic was uncommonly shown, where being a wizard was part of you, but the discussion of such issues was kept out of polite society by manners and propriety by some people and talked about avidly behind hands and in garden sheds by others.

The last of the people had left the station and Harry stepped onto the rapidly-filling carriage as other people surged around him, taking up the available space. When he arrived at his godfather's house, Harry decided, he would act surprised. Surprised and grateful at the throng that would have by now – he glanced at his wristwatch – have arrived…Hermione, obviously, and Ron, his best friend. Sirius, of course, and Dumbledore's friends. Those who his mother would have invited from her family, her sister Petunia, her husband and her son, Dudley. Regulus, Sirius's brother. Would Remus and Caelius be there? Remus may well be caring for his son and he had noticed Caelius's door still firmly shut as he left the European Relations Department on his way out of the Ministry, so not much chance. Ron may even have extended the invitation to his family, and the thought of a dozen Weasleys around the place made Harry smile even harder.

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This is the story that was. A world where magic didn't skulk in the shadows (as it were) of human society. Where a quirk of genetics that made a culture of people able to operate in a different way, channel energy in an efficient and effective manner was celebrated and integrated with those that did not.

Imagine a world where muggles (the latter group of unfortunate individuals) and wizards (the former) were equal, where harmony existed between these two groups of people, where muggles not only knew of wizards, but freely accepted them, lived side by side and operated alongside and with one another, heralding and promoting their distinct differences and accepting the shortcomings.

What would it be like? Would _you_ like to live there? How would _you_ feel? Would it depend on whether you were a wizard or non-wizard? Or would that no longer matter if you knew you were just part of a genetic variation that was the human race, in the same way that physical and mental differences are? Eye, skin and hair colour; whether you are intellectual, good at sport, a good communicator? All those are genetic variations, and as Cecilia Frobisher discovered, in the world she had left.

But more than that. She also discovered that there were degrees of wizardlyness, that one could be good at one thing, a specialist, while not much good at other kinds of magic. Where once a person may not have shown an ounce of magical talent but had, later in life, been able to manifest their abilities was one way this was shown. Another was imperceptibly small developmental steps for the witch or wizard so they emerged from Wizarding school managing to set light to a small shrub, or change the colour of carrots, something non-wizards had been keen to point out could be done in a variety of other ways much more easily (matches, dyes) and at a fraction of the cost.

Here, in this world, minor magical talent was recognised too and, in its way, similarly embraced. Hedgewards, the wizard school, had for several years accepted students who had special magical needs, and assisted them accordingly.

Letters of acceptance to wizards and witches did not exist here as they had done in Cecilia's original world. There was no more secrecy or concealment of either location or manner of education. Those wizards and witches from non-magical families could choose to have their children educated in the usual school system (and likewise their abilities were accommodated and nurtured, to a point).

This was a world that prided itself on openness and fairness, where both wizards and non-wizards co-existed peaceably and tolerably, with few prejudices and little bias. By opening up the frontiers fear and hatred would melt away and the human race, no matter their differences, could march forth into a bright future hand in hand.

Well, that was Aberforth Dumbledore's idea in any case and he spent all his life working to that end, the latest development of which would come into force that very September within the walls of Hedgewards. It had begun by the creation of the Reciprocator movement, where diplomatic relations between wizards and non-magic people were strengthened through co-operation and communication, begun in the very late eighteenth century by Joseph Black, an antecedent of Sirius and Regulus Black and he, Aberforth, had revived and modernised the Reciprocators at the beginning of the twentieth century to become the group of wizards and witches that they were today.

Of course, had it not been for Cecilia Frobisher dropping down behind the veil in the wizard world that we all know and love to alter memories in the hope that this would prevent the chaos that was ensuing in the Ministry this would not have been the case at all. But it is. This is the story that was, it is what happened when history was changed and, like all changes in history, things alter that cannot be controlled and the results are not always for the better.

In September, Hedgewards was to admit non-wizards for the first time, those from ordinary wizarding families whose children displayed no discernable magical talent, certainly, but also those whose families were non-magical, where the children were equally unmagical – these children were also eligible to apply for a place. This was the culmination of Aberforth Dumbledore's vision and hard work over several decades and, with help from the Ministry, in the form of Caelius Lupin, the legacy of mixed schools had come to fruition with the aim of toleration and understanding.

Of course, the idea had not been universally accepted – Aberforth had upset a good deal of people, including his brother Albus, and several others, both wizardly and non-magical. The fear that cultures were being eroded, diluted and ignored had inflamed these people, especially when the curriculum had been outlined by Caelius Lupin in both the Daily Prophet and the Times newspapers. Caelius, in easy political banter had brought up the point made clearly by Aberforth before his death two years before, which was that the reason people held these views was entirely the reason such schools should exist in the first place.

Now, imagine a world where muggles and wizards are in direct conflict. Not too hard, is it? Only one step away from a certain world that we all know and love. But some wizards harbour this twisted thought because they wish wizards to reign supreme with non-wizards subjugated. The Ministry know this, hence their eagerness with the proposed inclusion policy.

It is a win-win situation – for some, like Aberforth Dumbledore, it will demonstrate that wizards and non-wizards can live and work together. For others, namely Albus Dumbledore Gellert Grindelwald, it shows that some wizards cannot be trusted to keep all that is magical sacred. And this was exactly the reason why certain sections of certain societies had decided to fight back.

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The parcel had been on the doorstep when he had arrived home that evening, so full of cake and tea that Harry honestly thought his stomach would burst. Putting his leg against the white uPVC frame and hoisting it up with one hand as he juggled the other parcels which he had been given at the Reciprocator headquarters.

As predicted his mother had lavished party food on him and his guests, the menu remaining unchanged from the first one he remembered, when he was about three or four: jelly and ice-cream and trifle (quite innocuous), Hula-Hoops (which, when brought forth from their packets, whipped round in circles in the wizard's hand before leaping into the air and falling, waiting for the guest to open their mouth.

There had been two cheese and pineapple hedgehogs – real hedgehogs which seemed to have taken exception to their spines being used as cocktail sticks. The usual array of sandwiches had been laid on the long table in no. 12, and had replenished themselves on demand as more and more guests had arrived.

Harry had been surprised at the number of people who had arrived – the wizards, partial wizards and non-wizards he had predicted. Tabitha Penwright, Severus Snape's girlfriend had made a fleeting appearance as had Alastor Moody, the Malfoy and Black families and Mundungus Fletcher who, Regulus had discovered, had been making the sandwiches replenish at a far faster rate than was necessary. No Remus or Caelius though, Harry reflected, though he had guessed they wouldn't be there.

On the old-fashioned telephone table seat which had been given to him by his maternal aunt (and was never used for telephone calls now as Harry used either the floo network, email or mobile phone) he heaped the parcels and pushed his way from the hall into the living room of his modest semi-detached house in he had travelled back to by apparating and flopped onto the settee, glancing at the carriage clock, another Evans family hand-me-down.

It wasn't as if he and Hermione had deliberately decided to furnish their house with 1960s non-wizard belongings – many had been given to them when they had moved in and neither of them had seen the need to replace perfectly good belongings, especially as they had a wedding to save for. Hermione had explained she wouldn't be at home when he got there because she had to return to her office in the ministry, to tie up a few loose ends before a long weekend off but she would be there before their friends arrived at eight-thirty for the second celebration to mark Harry's birthday.

Reaching for the television remote control Harry waved it in the direction of the screen, neglecting to press any buttons. Hermione hated leaving the television on stand-by ("Just think of the electricity we'll be wasting – it'll cost us, and what about the environment!") but Harry simply used a voiceless spell to activate the infra-red sensor which transmitted the information before moving his fingers to the buttons to put on the early evening news.

"…and finally," the newscaster intoned, a humourless smile upon his face which told viewers that the story was meant to be amusing but it wasn't, in his opinion, "…an elderly woman had a lucky escape this afternoon when the steps that she was about to fall down transformed into a slide. Bessie Harris, 68, from Walworth, slipped down to the platform of the Bakerloo line while she was walking down with her husband John. Mrs Harris and may have suffered severe injuries had it not been for the quick thinking of a young wizard who had changed the steps into a smooth surface. Mrs Harris was unharmed and thanked the young man, who has not been identified." The newsreader looked at the screen, addressing Harry personally. "So, if you were the wizard, and you are watching now, a very grateful Mrs Harris wishes to thank you again."

Harry rolled his eyes at the screen. He'd just helped, as anyone else would. It had figured so little in his mind that he'd neglected to tell anyone at all. At least the news report didn't contain his name or he would have been in for a great deal of ribbing from his mates that evening.

Such items regularly featured in the last-item slot on the news though not usually the help-the-aged kind. Often it was arson or theft, when wizards were (probably unfairly) put in the frame when the lack of a logical explanation had eluded the authorities, or when foul play was suspected on the size and shape of prize-winning vegetables. He flicked the screen off and got to his feet.

Just time for a shower and a change before opening up the nibbles for the evening (his stomach rolled at the mere thought of food) and sorting out which wine Hermione wanted to be opened, as well as lager and butterbeer cans, lemonade and cola. I'll get some music sorted out on the eyepod Harry thought, glancing at his pile of gifts, which would remain unopened until the morning ("…that's the rules, Harry, or else what are birthday's for…?") and he grabbed the lot, making his way to the kitchen and pushing them into the pantry out of sight.

"It'll be a good evening," Harry said aloud as he made the stairs two at a time. Turning left he entered the bathroom and, turning the water on with one hand he began to strip off his work clothes before strewing them around. His friend Ron would turn up with yet another "bit of stuff" and the rest of the Weasley clan would turn up at various intervals too. Tonks would probably cave in the door upon her arrival with Nick, her non-wizard boyfriend who regularly rolled his eyes in her direction (laughing with her and not at her) and Tonks would grin and take his hand.

Hermione's friends would turn up and the Fred and George would try to chat them up; Sam would arrive with Crystallia, a tall, ice-blonde-haired, willowy witch his age who he had met on an exchange visit to Durmstrang that year and who had transferred to Hedgewards to the disgust of her family. Harry knew he would be unlikely to see his younger brother's face as it would be, he guessed, turned in Crystallia's direction and he would be, "snogging her face off" as Tonks had so delicately put it at Reciprocator's Christmas party where everyone was first introduced to Crystallia Brandt.

Harry held his hand under the shower, checking it was hot enough before stepping in, closing the door behind them. He was grateful to his family, Hermione's too, for helping them with the deposit for the house. They had proposed it to be a joint engagement and wedding present as neither of Harry nor Hermione would have been able to save enough for something decent before they tied the knot. It was just a pity that the fixtures and fittings were a little tired.

When he had made some money, when both of them had been promoted, they could do the house up, bit by bit, so that the interior contrasted with the hand-me-down furniture, which could then be replaced and passed on. Harry soaped himself as his mind wandered to the forthcoming evening.

The party would begin to wind down in the early hours when the younger folk would have sloped off to a nightclub somewhere or back home for at least some hours sleep before the next morning and of those remaining would suggest a board game, wizard chess (although that had become altogether too violent the last time his set had been played and Harry had had to take out both the white and black sides and isolate them from one another to prevent inter-game genocide).

Diopoly, like its sister game but with both wizard and non-wizard properties running parallel around the board and using two tokens, the wizard set's tokens having a variety of occult shapes, and played simultaneously, would cause too much tension. Ron had sworn never to play again after the last time Fred had used the wand from the wizard circuit to cause George's iron from the non-wizard side to grow imperceptibly hotter until it burned a hole right through Ron's wizard money (his proudly-stowed 500 galleon notes) and he had to resign bankrupt.

Anyone suggesting cards would be the cause of Hermione yawning, looking at the time and declaring that it was far too late for her to be up now and she really should be getting to bed considering what she had drunk and when Percy foolishly would opine that "Significant Chase", a quiz game not dissimilar to another game with cheese or pie shaped pieces which moved around a hub-shaped board with categories such as "Science and Magic", "Wizards of History" and "Quidditch" one of his brothers would pound him on the head with something heavy to prevent him from uttering the word "charades".

Yes, it would be a good night, Harry concluded. A predictable one, but then, he was nearly thirty and predictability was reassuring when you couldn't party night and day as Sam, at nearly seventeen, could, much to their parents disapproval. He turned off the shower and, realising that there were no clean towels around, used a hot air charm to evaporate himself to dryness.

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The bright July sunlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains. Harry blinked, closed his eyes and turned over. Beside him, snoring softly, Hermione was still sleeping, having stayed up far longer than Harry, in the event, discussing with Tonks several serious topics as Nick Smith snored on the sofa, perhaps hoping the sobriety of the dialogue would infiltrate their biochemistries. She had fallen into bed next to Harry a good two hours after him and would be asleep till at least noon, Harry guessed.

Ron had not brought with him his usual serial girlfriend and instead had scored with the girl next door who had banged on the door with force, having got fed up with the noise and had come to complain. Ron had pulled her in and invited her to join them before walking Alice back home "in case she got lost".

The wizards had delighted the non-wizards with tricks and charms; those who had not seen such magic close up were astonished and amazed though several were rolling their eyes at the Weasley twins who, very much in the party spirit, had taken to gluing Cassandra, one of Hermione's friends to the ceiling much to her annoyance when she couldn't be brought down for a good half an hour.

The eyepod had got broken somehow – he suspected Sam – the eye was hanging out of its socket and this damage had caused the tracks on the player to become mangled, join together, became spliced, and cut out half way though the evening. That his brother had sloped off with Crystallia and Hermione's friends at that moment did nothing to lessen the suspicion and Harry had declined Charlie's offer of repairing it – he knew the player would arrive back in his possession worse than it had left with scorch marks.

It was no use. The light had entered Harry's eye and signalled the decrease of serotonin levels in his brain, causing him to wake. Rubbing his eyes, Harry sat up and, taking care not to disturb Hermione, pulled on his dressing gown and made his way to the door, closing it behind him as he padded downstairs.

He was surprised to encounter Nick Smith exiting the living room and rubbing his equally sleepy eyes. Nick gave him a grin and a slap on the back, wishing Harry a "Happy Birthday" and informing him that Tonks had left early to make sure Freya had returned to their home.

"She's a challenge," Nick admitted, accepting the offer of a coffee as Harry sloped towards the kitchen. "But they get on, Tonks and Freya. She's a good influence on the girl." Harry brought to mind Remus and Mrs Lupin, who had originally adopted Freya eleven years before when she had been rescued from her burning home (wizard games gone wrong) which had claimed the lives of her parents.

"A good party," Nick added, draining his cup and smoothing down his yesterday's clothes, wondering whether anyone at work would notice or care if he turned up like that. "Hey, what's your opinion on the Hedgewards thing? That they can take on non-wizards in September?"

Harry's sore mind scraped to the facts to his foremind. Why would any non-wizard want to send their child to a wizard school? They would feel constantly left out, surely? His view he voiced to Nick, who nodded in agreement.

"Some people would. They're weird like that. Or nosey." He stood up and put the cup in the sink. "Want me to wash it?" Harry shook his head. "Thanks for that. Good party," he added again.

"Thanks," said Harry, rubbing his head vaguely. A shower would make him feel more human. He watched the front door close behind Nick before throwing his head back lethargically. It had been a _good _night. Then his eye caught the pile of presents that Hermione, presumably, had collected together on the kitchen work surface for him.

There were others, he remembered. Harry pushed the stool back with his legs and he made his way to the now much-barer pantry. From the upper-most shelf, where he had laid them, Harry pulled the gifts adorned with a variety of patterned papers (some of the animate decorations whirring into action and causing him to groan at the now-nauseated feeling he was now experiencing) before heaving them next to the others.

Hermione would get her wish, to have them opened on his birthday, and with her there, so she could discuss, comment and, possibly, criticise ("constructively though, Harry," she would protest.

Turning, Harry made to go back upstairs but an altogether plain outer wrapper caught his eye. Glancing back he realised it was not a gift at all but the parcel which had been on his doorstep the previous afternoon. Rebellion piqued in his mind as Harry turned back. _That_ didn't have to wait until Hermione got up – he could open that one now.

Tearing at the brown paper Harry revealed the contents Looking through the copious sheets of paper he began reading the passages at random, moving unconsciously back to the table where Hermione found him, asleep over them, six hours later.


	3. The Reciprocators

Sunlight was glancing through the panes of glass in Caelius Lupin's office. Or it would have been had the weather in all the Ministry of Magic offices been controlled by the maintenance department's spells. Coincidentally, the weather in his office and outside in Central London were the same and Caelius was treated to the warm, strong sunlight of a bright Friday morning.

He rubbed his forehead, a wide, much wrinkled area, which had grown increasingly creased, Caelius believed, over the last couple of months. The Ministry, _his_ department, was responsible for the initiative of inclusion for all at Hedgewards, Britain's only magical school, and it was giving him, the head of the Department of National Relations, yet another migraine.

Oh yes, he had agreed with Aberforth Dumbledore in principle, that all children, no matter their magical ability, should be allowed access to any school in the UK, subject to admission criteria, but it was he who was responsible for the practical implementation. He glanced at the pile of letters he had to deal with. In a few hours, when the morning's mail was delivered by the tiny, electric-blue imps who zoomed through every office in the Ministry at precisely 9 O'clock every morning, the pile would be replenished and he would have more work to do.

And every day, time was running out. The days strode slowly but decisively towards 1st September. Caelius pulled towards him the nearest letter, which had arrived yesterday, and he skimmed over the contents. A letter from a non-wizard family who say that, because their elder son had been admitted to Hedgewards last year, chosen for his clear magical talent, they would like to know how to apply for a place for their second son, with no magic under the new admissions policy? Caelius had yet to consider this for, he had not yet considered it, the letter here being the first actual query he had had.

The reason he had not considered it was because there were more pressing needs to consider, such as, how were the non-wizards going to Hedgewards going to get onto Platform 9 ¾? If the threshold was left open anyone could enter the platform, yet the issuing of magical passes might prove difficult to use for someone new to magic. And also, Caelius added guiltily himself, if he didn't have any applications this year, the finer details he could consider at leisure.

Then there was the matter of spellbooks and other paraphernalia. Non-wizards could not get onto Diagonalley so a non-wizard version of the required shops had been set up. But a good deal of capital had had to be invested in the scheme and there were various complications here too what books would non-wizards require? All Hedgewards students required a wand yet, how could non-wizards obtain one for no wand would choose a non-wizard A false one might be considered degrading yet arriving with no wand at all would allow them to stand out.

Brooms too were also difficult. Again, Hedgewards students required one and though students could just select a broom any activity involving one meant flying it. He had carried out tests upon charming a broom to operate with ordinary, voice-operated commands, meaning no magic from the owner was required, but Caelius had been unable to get one to permanently adhere to a broom long term.

And so the problems, now real problems with at least one potential non-wizard on Hedgewards' roll next month, continued…

At least Caelius had been able to influence the curriculum, planning for an increased number of lessons in subjects such as "History of Magic", "Astronomy", "Herbology," "Muggle Studies", and "Divination", with recommendations to staff of how to incorporate non-wizards into the practical subjects.

But that then led to Caelius's biggest hurdle had been the mindset of the staff at Hedgewards itself. They had had three or four years to get used to the idea of non-wizards arriving at the school: right from the start Aberforth, as headmaster, had broached the subject with the staff making sure he was clear to them that the admission of non-wizards was not an _if_ but a _when_. Following countless training days Aberforth had had to admit to Caelius that though the mindset of the staff was changing it was a glacial change rather than a torrent and that all of them would get used to the idea and work with it eventually. Caelius wondered whether this September was "eventually" enough.

He pushed aside the letter from the parent, and the others, from suppliers, from other parents demanding to know how the changes would affect their magical children, from politicians both from within the Ministry and from the non-wizard sister-ministry at Whitehall. It was going to happen, and a month from now at least one non-magical student would be educated within the noble surroundings of Hedgewards castle.

At least he had Severus Snape on his side in terms of Hedgewards. Snape had been made Headmaster two years ago, on the passing of Aberforth Dumbledore. His usual sombre manner had softened a little when he understood exactly what the principle would entail. Caelius had had a feeling that Snape would be receptive – his long-term girlfriend, Tabitha Penwright, of the Department of Mysteries, was a witch with limited magical ability. Where Miss Penwright's abilities lay was the interpretation, understanding and analysis of the deepest and most entangled mysteries, dangerous and dark, perilous, lethal and innocuous.

Leaning back in his chair, Caelius rubbed his eyes and leaned his head back, staring at the gorgeous blue of the early morning imitation sky. His mind drifted to his nephew, Septimus, who would be starting at Hedgewards that year. What would life be like for him? He would be rubbing shoulders with non-wizards throughout his senior life and, although that was not unlike his primary education – his mother, Cecilia, Caelius's sister-in-law, had insisted Septimus be educated at the local primary school – but this was a much more important time in his life. The changes he made at Hedgewards would affect him directly.

Putting his hand out towards the pile of letters, Caelius scraped his chair back and got to his feet. He needed a break, a change from these four walls, even if the four walls changed in any case. Clouds whizzed high above him as he made his way to his office door and, withdrawing his wand, swished it, dimming the lights. Caelius made his way left, towards the elevator, before pressing the button which would take him to the foyer and to the bank of chimneys. He would floo to Grimmauld Place and speak to the rest of the Reciprocators. Action was needed and he couldn't now do it alone.

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"Caelius!" James Potter looked up from his cup of tea which Lily just had made him to the fireplace in the living room of No. 12, Grimmauld Place. He saw the old wizard, his friend's brother and their connection to the Ministry, shake his head as if a swarm of bees were inhabiting it and smile a semi-forced smile in his direction.

"Good morning, James," replied Caelius wearily. "Have you just go here?" James shook his head. "Stopped over, with Lily. We had a small get-together for Harry yesterday and our own party sprang from there." He glanced up the stairs to where the bedrooms and Sirius's study was. "The old man's still in bed – he's not long turned in. Lily was far more sensible," he added unnecessarily.

Because, of course, the headquarters of the Reciprocator movement was also Sirius Black's house. It had been that way been since his ancestor, Joseph Black, had founded the Reciprocators, to promote wizard-muggle understanding. The principle today was much the same although, for political correctness, the Reciprocators promoted wizard-non-wizard understanding.

Any political development which operated around wizards and non-wizards required the Reciprocators to consider the effects on either wizard or non-wizard communities. Their current projects included the universal acceptance of any child, no matter their magical ability, to any school they wished to attend, the Hedgewards situation being the most pressing. It was James Potter as a representative of the Reciprocators, Severus Snape as Hedgewards headmaster and Caelius representing the Ministry for Magic who had the responsibility for that sphere. Lily Potter had taken on the responsibility, with Tabitha Penwright, of the Auld Magic.

"He'll need to be up by the afternoon," commented Caelius seriously, "Remus needs him to fly to Lancashire, to Silsden." The other current concern was the recent government introduction of half-breeds to the country. Where, the Ministry reasoned, non-wizards had been accommodated so too should these other magical creatures, werewolves, vampires and the like. Not that any had applied to reside in Britain – yet – but the idea was in the public's consciousness and it was up to Sirius and Remus to advocate the advantages of such creatures being allowed to reside, in controlled conditions, in the UK in the spirit of equality and diversity.

Of course there had been a backlash against the integration. The government, a national integrated government combined of both the Ministry of Magic and the non-wizard British Government, had taken a long time in their decision to allow half-breed creatures into the country. They used the weight of precedence to aid their argument, that several other countries in Europe, and indeed the world, tolerated these creatures' presence.

The Combined Government had been inundated with complaints with an increase in a call in recent years from non-wizards for their own government again, representing only the interests of non-wizards. The CG was quick to point out that any call for a government that would only represent one part of the country to the exclusion of others was discrimination, but this hadn't stopped a "Non-Wizard National Party" from being conceived and, at this spring's local elections, putting forth a candidate.

"Would you like a drink? Some tea, perhaps?" James waved his hand over his teacup and a second cup, full, unlike his own, appeared in front of Caelius. "You look awful, by the way." Lupin looked at James and breathed a heavy sigh, but said nothing. "You haven't been up all night again?"

"When a job needs doing, it needs doing," sighed Caelius again. He was tired. But then, no-one else could do what he needed to do. "But there is something you can help me with." He handed James the letter from the non-wizard family. James took it and looked at the outer envelope. "I would appreciate your point of view," he added as James opened it and glanced over the words. "As you can see – "

" – we have our first applicant," James interrupted, a grin on his face.

"Indeed so," replied Caelius, without smiling. "I need you to outline, from your point of view, the practical steps which need to be put in place for him to be integrated successfully. How should he, for example, be selected for a house…? Quidditch…? How will his magical education be manifest…?"

James nodded. Following Aberforth's death two years previously a split in the Reciprocators nearly occurred when the issue of who was in charge came to the fore: Caelius and Sirius had put themselves forward, the former being voted in, but there were several abstentions.

"It has to be right," agreed James, "for the boy, for Hedgewards…"

"And for us," added Caelius. "We have to show that the inclusion idea is practicable."

"I'll run it past Lily, too." James looked back to the letter and got to his feet. "Being from a mug – non-wizard family, she would be more sensitive to the issue."

"How is her work going?" added Caelius, seemingly eager to prolong the conversation, addressed James's retreating back. He turned, flicking his long hair over his shoulder.

"She is still immersed in Aberforth's work. She has spent a deal of time with Severus too, discussing the implications of the applied-science-magic aspects, the Universal Link and all that."

Aberforth's shoes were big ones to fill, Caelius knew. He had inherited a vast amount of information from old Dumbledore – the wizard had had a lifetime to accumulate all he had, and now Caelius had so little time to process it to effect and use it simultaneously alongside the constant stream of governmental changes that had occurred of late. So much to accommodate in his mind, especially some of the revelations, so bald, so raw, to which he alone was now privy and whose burden, even now astounded and shocked him.

"Any word from Miss Penwright?" James shook his head, making his way back towards the settee in the large living room, knowing that the "quick chat" Caelius thought he was having would feel far longer from his point of view. "She's in the European office, isn't she?"

"She should be. Only we haven't heard from her of late. She was due to have returned this week only her colleague there, Vincento, floo'd to say she was working in the field."

"Tabitha'll be all right," replied James nonchalantly. "You know what she's like – she'll be immersed in the Auld Magic and time will mean nothing to her." Caelius said nothing – he trusted little these days, even others' behaviour when contrasted to their usual character. So much could be manipulated, so much controlled.

"I don't think Severus has heard much from her," continued James, turning to the letter again as if a hint to Caelius to be quiet and let him get on with it, "at least, he's not said.

"He isn't worried?" asked the older wizard.

"Hard to tell with old Snapeyboy, eh, James?" From down the staircase Sirius Black, rubbing his hair in an "I'm too old for this drinking into the night" game before leaping the sofa and sitting next to his friend, trying to wince silently at his aching muscles which were cursing him for his leap. "How is old Severus?" he added, grinning at Caelius. Lupin senior did not return it, partly for its carefree gaiety but, mostly, because he was exhausted.

"We were just discussing Miss Penwright," said James. "And that we haven't heard from her recently."

"You know old Tabs," replied Sirius, "she'll probably have forgotten to eat for three days like she did last time. You know, when your Harry found her wandering around the European Relations department talking to herself and clasping a casket of scrolls?"

"Oh, yes," recalled James, chuckling, "I remember now. I said that, didn't I Kay?" Caelius looked at him, jerking his head out of his own, deep thoughts as he realised James was talking to him. Caelius nodded.

"You did indeed," Caelius replied. He sometimes he wished that he had never put himself forward to be head of the Movement, had he known what his life would now be like, weighted with responsibility that he could not wholly share. How he wished Sirius had won the vote; that he would never have known what he knew, and what he had to do. Sirius should have been in his shoes now. He would never be so perky.

"Are you going?" asked James, relief showing in his voice.

"I'm afraid so. I need to visit Septimus this afternoon. He is missing his mother. And Freya too."

"More like a mother to him than his own, recently," said Sirius, but was nudged sharply by James, who hissed "shut up!"

"Cecilia can no more help her position than you or I can," replied Caelius, a glow of guilt in his stomach, for it had been Caelius who had been instrumental in her…_relocation_. "Her work is vital, for what is occurring in Europe _must not happen here_!" For the first time in Caelius's words were sharp and brusque, his tiredness shrugged away as the important things he underlined to his fellow wizards. Then it softened as his mind drifted to his beloved nephew.

"Nor can Remus, which is why you both need to be careful this afternoon." Caelius fixed Sirius with a grave look.

"Certainly." Sirius's tone had changed too, the gravity. "The witches we talk with today should be easily satisfied. Lily has synthesised the Auld Magic with that of the law at the present time – they must see reason. They _can't _refuse to capitulate."

Can't they? Caelius made a few steps back towards the fireplace. He must remember that he had to visit Tonks later that afternoon to collect the wayward Freya – Septimus had been almost pining for her, he missed her so. How she and his mother had come to disagree he had never fully understood. At least Nymphadora had offered her a home, and she seemed to be stepping out with a much more suitable boy at last, Darren Dursley.

No, that was untrue. Caelius did understand why. But that was in the past. Freya had blossomed into a lovely young lady and had chosen to remain close to the family.

"Will we see you this evening?" Caelius, in his gait to the fireplace, turned and shook his head.

"I've promised Caelius I'd be with him. You know how worried he gets when Remus is working." He turned sharply and looked at Sirius before stepping into the hearth, his voice commanding again. "I trust you will say nothing ill of Cecilia to Remus today."

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"Did you read the article in the Daily Prophet? Someone's been blabbing. Harry? The Government's _announcement_?" Hermione put down the wizard newspaper next to her on their ancient settee shrouded in modern throws to hide the age and leaned towards Harry. "Are you all right?"

"Hm? Eh?" Harry glanced up from his apparent engrossment in the green, patterned carpet and looked at his fiancée stupidly. He swallowed. "Something about…the Ministry?"

"I said, dopey, have you read the Daily Prophet?" She got to her feet and handed it to Harry, who glanced over the main stories on the front, his mind scrabbling to decide which one Hermione meant.

"I mean, yes, admitting non-wizards to Hedgewards. A good idea, we all agreed that. But just read the language…listen to how it's written…there's no way that'll convince _anyone_ that educational inclusion is the right thing to do." Harry looked up from the Prophet. His mind had been thinking on the mysterious parcel and its contents, which he had absently returned to the pantry. Mysterious, yet, somehow familiar. And intriguing.

"It's…farcical! How anyone thought to publish it. And how anyone got the document to the Prophet! We must have a leak somewhere, and at such a damaging time too!"

He had shown Hermione what he had been sleeping on when he had awoken at the kitchen table that morning. She had glanced over it, "hm'd" at it before asking him to put it away so he could give her a hand with the post-party tidy-up.

"It could have been written better, certainly," Harry agreed. The Universal Link…Energy, Light, Magic…it seemed like he knew about them, and they were important, somehow. But why, and how, and who had sent them? All of these things currently eluded him.

"If I were a parent I'd worry about sending my child to Hedgewards this year…dangerous and disturbing…as if! Bad non-wizard influences! Education fatally disrupted…held back…delayed…would affect examination results…" Hermione began to pace, a rant forming in her mind as she raged at the author of the article. "I bet now poor Caelius is being drowned in complaint letters and Howlers have been, well, howling…" she finished awkwardly. "Are you listening to anything I'm saying?" Harry looked up, a well-trodden look of men down the ages, a mixture of innocence and "would I be doing anything else dear?" He looked back to the paper, unable to keep it up.

"But it does talk of universal education for all," Harry replied, "that Hedgewards is to become such a place. They will receive government money to fund it – " he stopped reading. "It's not like when you and I were at school, Hermione, wizards and witches today went to primary school with non-wizards. They know them, they've done their accepting."

"A lot of parents won't see it like that," concluded Hermione, frowning and folding her arms. "They will take on the bad things and apply them to their children."

"_You_ would, you mean, if you were in their position," replied Harry, proving he knew Hermione far better than she thought he did. "I – "

"Well – "

But they were both interrupted when a loud hammering came to the front door. Harry got to his feet and made his way to it. Ron was standing on the doorstep when he opened it, still dressed in his clothes from the night before and wearing a goofy grin.

"How's Alice?" guessed Harry. Ron tittered a little, before stepping in.

"Wonderful," replied Ron, dreamily. "Well, she was, when I left her in bed just now. _Wow_, that girl is _hot_!"

"Spare us the details," moaned Hermione, who had followed Harry and who was now looking about at the untidiness and knowing that she would get far less out of Harry now that his friend was here. "Would you like a cuppa?"

"Love one," replied Ron, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "Have you got any grub left? I'm starving!"

"Will a bacon buttie do you?" asked Hermione, generously as she found her wand and waved it, making a cup of tea appear in front of him, the lazy way.

"Hermione, you are heaven personified!" declared Ron, taking her hand and she rolled her eyes at him.

"Only when food is concerned," she added wryly. Harry pulled up a chair next to Ron.

"Could you do me one too, H?" asked Harry. "And I expect you haven't had anything either?"

Three bacon butties later and the conversation had turned to Remus and Sirius's forthcoming mission.

"How is old Remus?" asked Ron amiably, between bites of his sandwich. Harry thought back to the last time he had seen the younger Lupin brother. At Grimmauld Place with Sirius, that was when, about three weeks before. He had come from work and had been talking to Sirius and his father about Cecilia's work at Hedgewards and how it had taken her to the continent. Sirius had seemed quite put out by the whole affair and had derided Mrs Lupin severely.

"Well, there's their son to consider," said Ron. "A mother, going off and leaving a child?

And there's Freya…she wasn't the best behaved teenager in the world." That was saying something, thought Harry. He was going to continue but Hermione was looking at Ron hotly.

"Well, I suppose I should give up my Ministry of Magic job then, and be at home looking after the twins. That their mother shouldn't consider her career at all. And actually, I don't think she had that much choice in the matter, actually!" Both Ron and Harry stared at her, dumbstruck. "What?" she asked, annoyed. Both wizards tried to speak at once.

"Twins?" questioned Harry.

"You said "actually" twice, actually," said Ron.

"I'm serious," replied Hermione, then, catching Harry's glance added, "I'm just using twins to make a point, Harry," she added. "It's good money, in the Reciprocatoring. State funded and a pension – can't say that about many jobs these days." Harry found himself nodding vaguely. And then a thought struck him.

"Mrs Lupin!" he exclaimed, dropping his half-eaten bacon sandwich onto his plate and scraping back his wooden carver chair on the terracotta tiles of the kitchen floor. Making his way over to the pantry Harry flung open the door and fumbled for the top shelf, his hand flailing until the stack of papers he had been sent was under his palm. Quickly he extracted them and flung them onto the kitchen table.

"Looks like a book that's been eaten by Sirius in his dog form," commented Ron.

"Looks like some sort of book, some code, to me," replied Hermione. "What about it?"

"I think so to, Hermione," agreed Harry, gesturing to the words on the paper he had uppermost, "but I can't really understand them, they're just fragments. But…the odd word, here and there…it takes me back to…it looks all the world like…"

"What?" asked Hermione and Ron together.

"Do you remember when Mrs Lupin turned up one day out of the blue, and next minute was writing a bestseller with me as the title character in it, that she gave away?"

"Oh yes, we've never heard the end of that one," said Ron, rolling his eyes.

"Well, it reminds me of that book." concluded Harry, who realised what he had just said didn't sound half so dramatic as how it had sounded in his mind. "That's what it looked like at five o'clock this morning," he added in justification.

"So?" asked Hermione. "What would anyone want to send you a half-mangled copy of that old thing for? People only read it because she gave it away free. Most people feel sorry for her now." Harry put down one of the pages and pushed it to one side.

"You're right," he admitted, "it does seem a little ludicrous." He looked at Ron. "Probably Fred or George trying a birthday prank."

"And what does that have to do with me?" asked Ron, defensively. Hermione put down her tea cup.

"Come on, both of you. You can help tidy up the place with me. Starting right now." She took the pages from in front of Harry and, opening the pantry cupboard, pressed the foot-lever of the pedal bin and threw them inside.


	4. Magic, Auld and New

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This time, Caelius Lupin appeared in Number 12, Grimmauld Place's living room in a manner far from his sedate, contemplative manner that morning. He could feel his heart racing, blood pumping and, that no-one could be found there, frantic pacing. It had gone so wrong. _How_ it had gone so wrong Caelius had not yet fathomed. Had James been looking at him now, with half a bush in his beard, skewed robe and half a left sleeve he may well have laughed. Though, under these circumstances, he may well be concerned with other matters.

"Where is everyone?" Caelius spoke loudly to the empty room and though you might expect there to be no answer, in fact one came from the direction of the Black ancestral portraits.

"They've gone to "St. Mungo's!" a booming voice echoed. Caelius swung his head towards Joseph Black's voice, pausing to take on this further piece of information to the pile that had already accumulated in the space of a couple of hours.

St. Mungo's. So Caelius might have missed them. That was where he had just disapparated from to here, having just brought them there. Caelius began to pace again, shaking his head again. He could have been more cautious – made sure they had been more cautious…made sure they had demonstrated that they would be more cautious…how could he not have predicted this outcome?

A "crack" next to Caelius made him start, as did the next one. Lily and James Potter appeared either side of him with not unpredictable expressions of anxiety and worry.

"There you are!" exclaimed James, clapping Caelius on his shoulder before pulling him in for a clap on the shoulder. Next to Caelius Lily's eyes filled with tears, which she had been holding in since she had seen them, and she sobbed behind her raised hand and James stepped past Caelius, taking her in his arms.

"Sam wanted to come too," sobbed Lily, her red hair bobbing on James's shoulder and her body quaking. "He…he…how could have seen them…not Sam…no…" James hugged her tighter and shushed her softly as he stroked her back. Caelius looked away. It was his fault, in the most part, he knew. But blaming himself would not prevent so awful happenings.

"Remus came off worse," Caelius said at length, when Lily's sobs had ebbed to intermittent gasps. Both of them turned to look at him, Lily's big eyes rimmed red, and James's face etched with a mixture of concern and pain. "The half-breeds which attacked them, a werewolf, a vampire amongst them, are in Azkaban; the witches and wizards are under arrest – Lucius Malfoy is questioning them at the Ministry."

At the mention of "vampire" and "werewolf" Lily began crying again. James turned his back on Caelius and silently led Lily upstairs. He watched them go before recommencing his pacing and his thinking. Presently, James reappeared, walking wearily back down the stairs before making his way over to the sofa and sitting on it, bowing over and placing his forehead on the heels of his hands. Caelius made his way over slowly and sat next to him.

"They never had a chance, Caelius," began James, rubbing his head with his hands. "The wizards just opened the door and let the…_halfbreeds_…attack them." He looked at Caelius, sorrow in his voice. "They tried to fight back but…there was no chance!" Caelius found himself nodding in agreement with James: Sirius, not so injured as Remus, had managed to speak a few words to James, and to him beforehand, before slipping into unconsciousness. Both had been bitten by the halfbreeds, Remus's injuries more critical than Sirius's; he was unconscious when Caelius had found them and had remained so.

he broke off and got to his feet, shaking his head as if to juggle the large number of disparate and conflicting pieces of information in his mind into a more sensible order.

Then Caelius got to his feet, walking away from the sofa and back towards the fireplace. He looked back over his shoulder, about to turn back to James, thought better of it and –

"crack" – disapparated.

Pacing his office moments later did nothing to help his mind. So much was invading his mind currently: the Hedgewards admissions; Severus Snape's feedback upon Miss Penwright's research; Remus and Sirius; the wizards and witches who had allowed (or even orchestrated) this afternoon's attack. The fact that Septimus would arrive home from school expecting Uncle Caelius to be there and –

Oh no. Septimus. He would have to care for the child, he realised. It was his fault that both his parents were not there to care for him, Remus being in St. Mungo's (a chill ran through Caelius as he began to fully comprehend the gravity of the incident), and his mother absent too. Oh, Cecilia Lupin he had directed well enough, though she was fully aware she was being used as an agent for the Ministry and that she had little choice in the matter now that Caelius was privy to her secret past, as handed down to him, and him alone, like so many things Reciprocator-related things.

Glancing at his desk Caelius looked at the now three-fold increase in the number of letters which had been there that morning. He looked away. He could not deal with that now. Withdrawing his wand, Caelius Lupin disapparated.

He arrived back in almost the same spot in No. 12's living room as he had left, awkwardly, a little while ago. The scene was almost the as he had left it: light glancing through the window onto the wide, patterned rug with only one Reciprocator, James, in the room, still sitting in the same place, but his arms now folded as he looked at the floor. When he noticed Caelius had returned he got to his feet and moved over to him.

"The wizards who did this," James began, his voice beseeching, "the _conjurists_…I just can't believe they are behaving like that…as if they can't accept the future, the developments we are making, and that non-wizards are making. If they won't accept them, what next? Live in mud huts and run around naked in the forests gathering mistletoe?" A very stereotypical view, of course, but Caelius knew what he meant.

"Unfortunately it's a view that's growing, and it's growing fast." Caelius moved wearily towards the kitchen – he was hungry, his body was telling him so now his mind was a little calmer. James followed him wordlessly. He sat down on one of the chairs and waved his hand in front of him, calling up a pot of tea and two cups and saucers. "Some wizards don't like change, as you know, and hark back to the nostalgic days where non-wizards were god-fearing, nature-fearing beings who jumped at crackling fire or owl hoots." Caelius poured the tea, some milk from the jug which had appeared at the same time as the cups and saucers. James said nothing, and took the tea – when Caelius was in the position to talk he was usually about to impart something worth listening to

"The Ministry have been aware for several months of pockets of this sort of thing appearing all over the place. Wizards actively avoiding non-wizard technology, a surge in fireplaces being built in houses without them and the sales of floo powder have gone up by five hundred percent since May…its as if some wizards are trying to enclose, fence in, our culture by retreating to a time when wizards and non-wizards were separate." He picked up his cup and took a sip.

"I have noticed that, recently," replied James. Then he fixed Caelius with a look. "But you haven't talked to us Reciprocators about it, though." Caelius shook his head then smiled.

"I have not. I had intended to meet with the Ministry tomorrow, the wizard cabinet in the Combined Government were to report on the matter, I had intended to discuss it at our meeting on Monday. But that was before today…" His voice tailed off to nothing, draining his cup and putting it down on the saucer. He looked at the pattern again, old country roses Royal Albert china. Clearly Sirius's long-gone mother was still influencing Number 12 from beyond the grave. He glanced at James who, at Caelius's mention of the attacks on Remus and Sirius, hung his head, staring himself now at the rose decoration.

Conjurists. Caelius thought back to this growing movement. First, it was a measure of patriotism, to celebrate their differences in a positive light. They relied on Auld magic, magic from the earliest origin. Earth magic – magic which was in nature, like the binding of a person or a spell using someone's hair or skin as a means to communicate with or control them. Of course it had been explained many decades ago that interacting with the DNA of a person by certain spells produced the desired effect, and while the science behind magic was all to well known. Now it was being ignored and even positively resisted.

How long could this go on for, when people stopped relying on science to interpret their world? When they stopped attending Hedgewards altogether? When they home-educated, relying on less than efficient, safe or reliable spells, ones which was passed from family to family; where outside influences were distrusted as a matter of course? Caelius shook his head. How they were going to counteract this change in thinking, originating as it had from Central Europe, driven by Aberforth's brother, no less, and Gellert Grindelwald.

His thoughts dwelt on Cecilia Lupin. She had spent a good part of her life in another world, at the beginning of bringing science and magic together. Would she have had better luck there, where non-wizards lived in ignorance of wizards? She had worked hard, there was no doubting that – Remus had known – _knew_, Caelius corrected himself – his brother wasn't dead – and had preserved her work when she herself had grown tired of it, redundant as it all was here, in this world.

"Where do you think these wizards, these conjurists, might take their rebellion?" James's question rang out in the kitchen.

"They wish for the Combined Government to be split, and for us to have our own ministry, working for wizard interests. For differentiation, for exclusion of non-wizards…the list could go on and on. The wizards Remus and Sirius encountered this afternoon appeared to want to prove that halfbreeds, as magical creatures, were more justified in gaining their attention than non-wizards. They had disregarded all Ministry safeguards – to be honest, had Remus and Sirius not been there it might have been them who were lying in "St. Mungo's".

"Should have been, the utter fools," replied James darkly. "If I'd been you, Caelius, I don't think I could have managed to keep my temper in their company." Believe me, replied Caelius to himself, I don't know how I did.

"They want their own government," he reiterated instead.

"Let them!" snapped back James, as if an imaginary conjurist had conjured himself into Number 12's kitchen. "See them suffer. It is through us and our hard work keeping it all running smoothly that they benefit! That they have the luxury to sit back and say, 'why do we need to know about science when we have magic?'! " Caelius looked at him. Usually level-headed and sober in his opinions it was rare for James Potter to issue an emotional proclamation. But then, Sirus was practically his brother; all the Reciprocators were as close as family. Caelius wondered why he felt nothing but a will to serve and liaise seeing as his brother was so critically injured.

"They see the life on the Continent," replied Caelius smoothly. "They think that if hierarchy is promoted and restored and wizards are classed as superior their lives would be better. The work we have done has only gone so far in breaking down prejudices over the years." He waved his hand over his teacup which refilled then, moving towards James's, offered to refill his. James shook his head. "I am concerned with the Ministry's reaction to all of this too – I believe they will advise the Combined Government to come down heavily on conjurists. For their actions over half breeds, I do agree, but some would like to take it further, and I fear conjurists will then have the ammunition to take their grievance to the European Council of Wizards. This is exactly what the extremists want, and will undermine us, and our cause, greatly."

James sighed. Here sat with him a great politician, who had served the interests of wizards, and non-wizards by effect, for a long time. He knew what Caelius said made sense, but it didn't mean he liked it.

"Durmstrang is their rallying point," continued Caelius, feeling the urge to recount what he had intended to recount to the whole of the Reciprocator movement on Monday evening. His feeling was that it was probably the best thing to suspend it but he needed to make sure at least one more Reciprocator understood the whole point of his view, should anything happen to him before he could officially speak to them all. James was there, and he seemed to be receptive. He hoped that the wizard would take on the significance of the point that Caelius had chosen to speak to him now.

"Our recession has not helped things, such things don't. It was the fragile nature of banks – again – that caused the 1956 goblin uprising. In times of economic decline people go back to their roots. Not one witch or wizard would have been caught dead going to a coven meeting in the nineties and yet now the application for official coven meetings, especially in North of England becoming more popular. But we can only account for those which have officially applied for a permit. We estimate that there are at least the same amount of covens operating illegally."

He paused, allowing for the information to sink in. A coven had brought together the witches and wizards near Pendle Hill, where Remus and Sirius had gone, and been attacked. Covens generally fostered and promoted natural magic, Auld magic, and the Ministry was often fearful because it was, or could develop into, unregulated magic. He watched James nod, his still-dark head, despite his age, bobbing slowly.

"This is not only happening here, but all over the continent. Only a month ago wizards from a coven in the Black Forest had been arrested over the alleged capture of a non-wizard, whose fate none of their accomplices would speak about. The man had been "oblivated" to prevent him from talking either." James nodded again, this time quicker. Everyone knew of the "Black Baiting" as the group's activities had become dubiously dubbed by newspapers across the world. The "oblivate" spell, which had been traced to one member of the coven, had been used to identify the rest of them and he and Sirius had joked that wizards either had to be very bold or very stupid not to realise any magic they did was traceable. Now, it didn't quite seem so funny any more.

"And then there's Durmstrang. They have gone the other way to Hedgewards. No weak wizards or witches there. They have not only selected specifically for the best magical talent in Europe but lead the way in technological research, new magic." Which is why he had sent Mrs Lupin there. "Many wizards in this country only have to look to the Harz Mountains to question why our magical education system had turned in the other direction. They fail to see that Durmstrang is privately funded by conservative, wizard-based industries who are interested in farming the best talent they can."

Gellert Grindelwald, who had intimate dealings with Albus Dumbledore, the famous non-wizard persecutor of old and who had gone into hiding many decades ago, had put in a considerable sum, Caelius had pointed out at the European Reciprocator Conference where this very issue had been discussed two months ago and where his valid concerns had been hastily brushed to one side. Due to their being inconvenient, Caelius had told himself bitterly at the time.

"Crystallia Brand's family don't believe in the elitism," James qualified, speaking of his younger son, Sam's girlfriend. "That's why they reluctantly sent her to England. They agree with our education system.

"Oh yes, many do. But equally, many have strong feelings to the contrary." Caelius disapparated the tea things. They reappeared in the scullery, much to Kreacher's annoyance. "They feel our culture is being eroded and that the only way to hang onto it is to practice the Auld magic. They cite non-wizard persecution of them, burning at the stake and so on, though inconsequential as we all now, as reasons to stir up conflict. That and a diminished understanding of science has led to ignorance and prejudice. Non-wizards won't sit back and take that either. James, " Caelius turned suddenly, gripping James's arm and looking at him urgently.

"I am concerned at the very real possibility of the Reciprocator Movement breaking down. We have been sidelined over the years and our funding reduced. Additionally, what conjurists say, to the wizard on the broom, makes sense as long as you don't think about it too hard. When I was at the trial of the Black Forest Coven at least two of the jury were known conjurists. There are several on the European Wizarding Council too, one of whom had pushed the bill into Europe for allowing freedom to half breeds." He let go of James and shook his head. James looked at the head of their movement, the Reciprocators, a group of enlightened wizards that had fought for communication between wizards and non-wizards for more than two centuries and pitied him.

"We will do what we can," replied James firmly, "we will fight them, we will do what we have always done." His voice was honest and true. Caelius looked at him and nodded in confirmation. But he felt anything other than this optimistic view that James had spoken of. He just hoped that his agent, who he had used most cruelly over the last few years, would change the course of events in their favour. In the favour of peace.

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This was the new magic, and it was wondrous to behold. Deep in the basement, or rather the basement of the basement, of the Ministry of Magic Tabitha Penwright, a witch of limited magical talent bar the interpretation of mysteries, sat amongst her artefacts. She could not have told you the time of day, nor even the day itself if you were to ask her now, so fixed her mind was on the object she had in her hand, and the few within range around her.

Everyone knew Tabitha Penwright, a quiet, mousy witch who had been much ignored and left alone during her first year at Hedgewards and who may have been a target for bullying due to her inability to perform many of the basic spells required of first years. It wasn't until another witch, whose family hailed originally from Tibet and who had brought in a strange artefact which had been passed down in her family, and which Tabitha had interpreted much to the utter astonishment of both her classmates and teacher, that her skill for understanding artefacts had been identified and her advanced prowess, attributed to post-NEWT level, had wowed her would-be tormenters.

If you had asked Tabitha how she did it, again, she would not be able to tell you. The black, rubber-like sack which Indira Lakshmi had brought to the Defence against the Dark Arts lesson, had let out a howl when touched by different people. Indira had explained that different people caused it to make different sounds, but nobody knew why and her family just took it to be a humorous object they had around the house. Tabitha has sneaked out of the Hufflepuff dormitory that evening and made it down to the Defence classroom where it still sat, having been used for target practice by the students: Indira had laughed and agreed to Defence spells being used on it because, as she put it, "there've been many spells thrown at it, and not one has changed it, or caused any damage whatsoever."

Tabitha had been found by the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Clutterbuck who, on first scolding her for being abroad all night, had then been astonished that she had discovered that Indira's rubber sack was in fact an interpretation device which, using the correct intonation, allowed for direct translation of many languages, even runic and imaginary languages.

Professor Clutterbuck had asked Tabitha how she had done it. Then, as now, she explained that she had a feeling, an instinct as to what spell she might use, or what incantation to try. Then she played around a little with the rhythm of her voice, tone and tambour until it yielded its secrets. These days it didn't work quite so quickly as it had done when she was eleven. Indeed, some artefacts she had been working on for several months, though most the interpreted far sooner than that and there had been no artefact Tabitha had failed to understand. Her record as a Mysteriour had been perfect.

Her job now wasn't just to understand mysteries. Using the Auld magic Tabitha married it to non-wizard technological developments. She had been personally responsible for sixty-eight new spells to enter the wizard world (though precisely none were attributed to her in the most recent edition of "Student Spells"). Trawling though history she cross-linked the magic to any scientific developments which had taken place that were akin to the magical ones, so as to produce insights that were both academically interesting (to other people, Tabitha had decided) and, more importantly (to Tabitha) of practical use by wizards.

Now, for example, Tabitha could give the reason how and why Indira's sack might be capable of interpretation, using scientific method to explain it in terms of energy, vibrations and the correct spell needed to activate it, which could only be done by a wizard who had had the correct amount of practice. For it was the practical which still held thrall for Tabitha as well as the translation into both scientific and magical dialects, as it were. In fact, what it came down to was wherever energy abounded magic could be used. It had been her discovery, but few people new about it.

She had help, however. As a member of the Reciprocators she relied heavily on Lily Potter's innate ability to understand history. By liaising with her, Lily was able to provide a clear understanding of both wizard and non-wizard past, usually without much reference to a book, such was her skill at remembering so much of it and Tabitha had often remarked that she would not be surprised that Lily would be able to remember so much about the past, it was a wonder it was brave enough to progress into the future.

Tabitha used Lily's knowledge and understanding of the wizard's past to match together science and between them practical magic could be borne, allowing wizards and muggles to continue to work together. The eye pod, another one of hers. A blend of non-wizard technology and hybrid magical creatures, the eye was used to match light mood to music.

She had been she who had developed the computer screen hex where, what you think about appears on someone else's computer, a form of telepathy. It had been a development from writing in steamed up mirrors where your message would appear on a chosen person's mirror in the condensation. In addition, there had been a "smellevision" which had been a boon to perfume and aftershave manufacturers by way of more direct advertising. This had been more a non-wizard development but it did not defy explanation – particles of the fragrance were apparated straight into people's homes. And countless other developments.

And none of it would have been possible without Severus Snape's tireless work on the Universal Link, Energy, Light, Magic, the last piece of understanding of which had been provided by Cecilia Frobisher. Not Frobisher now, Tabitha corrected herself, Cecilia Lupin. She had got along with Cecilia: where Cecilia was outgoing, gregarious and forthright Tabitha was introverted and preferred her own company. She had pitied Cecilia too, though, having had such deep, complicated connections to the Ministry, few of which kept her around for long.

Cecilia had spent her second-to-last undertaking at Hedgewards as a teacher of science. What her duty was now, Tabitha did not know, but she did know that Cecilia, when she had been around, before leaving, had been deeply miserable. Whatever her secret mission was, it wasn't secret enough for this Mysteriour to know there was something deeply troubling her.

Now, Tabitha looked around her, coming to from her deep thoughts surrounding a cube, with nine segments on each side, where each third of each side could move in three directions, a little like a Rubix Cube but each square black. It had been there for several decades, discarded as unreadable. Tabitha blinked around her department. Deep down there, within the Ministry, was her place, where she liked to be…with her mysteries.

Cecilia had told her once that she knew of a place where semi-skilled wizards and witches like Tabitha were hated and non-wizards reviled as animals. Tabitha was grateful that she had never known such a place. For to be a Mysteriour, and a Reciprocator too, she knew she could be no more suited for any other role.

Slipping off her locket, a large, heart-shaped piece of jewellery which had been in her family (which, in another world that we are more familiar with it being one of seven horcruxes created by a certain dark wizard who here, was just old Tom Riddle) she sighed as its weight was relieved from her neck. It helped her concentrate to be as bare as possible, though she did draw the line at nudity.

Little did Tabitha know, but she would have loved to have known had not only 3 people (Aberforth, Caelius and Cecilia) known, that it was an intransmutable object, something which had remained unchanged when Cecilia changed the past and therefore the future, one of many things which when remained the same when Cecilia had gone behind the veil and interacted with the memories. As she placed it on the stone pillar next to her, it glowed reassuringly.

Tabitha smiled before looking round at the strange department. This was her realm, her dominion. She was queen: no other Mysteriour, wizards who worked in the department of Mysteries, not Vincento with his elvish qualities, or Gregor, their ancient overseer, could match her for skill. Then she looked back at the black, articulate cube, clearing her mind so she could focus.

Behind her, unnoticed, the locket disappeared.

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By means of the Saturday morning post, two days after the arrival of the first strange parcel of writings another arrived for him. He was lucky that Hermione was at work that morning for, idly over a cup of coffee, Harry read the information contained therein. More fragments, like thoughts and ideas, but about potions this time. Or more significantly, a potion. It was hard to make out much more from it but he was intrigued.

And then, after his second cup of coffee Harry was in action, retrieving the black bin bag which he had put out for rubbish that night and which contained the original parcel's contents that Hermione had disposed of for him. How glad he was that Hermione was at work for she would not only have scoffed at him for wanting it back but laughed as he fished around in the refuse for it.

Where had both of these come from? That was a question that Harry had asked himself several times that morning. He had even scrutinised the packaging that the second had arrived in, but it had seemingly come through the ordinary mail and the postmark was indistinct. The first had reminded him of Cecilia Lupin's book; the second of some sort of experimental potion that was being constructed, something which Severus Snape was known to develop on behalf of the Reciprocators, strictly in his own time, now he was headmaster of Hedgewards.

The author of this second written work was also thinking about why it had all been written, but not for the same reason as Harry Potter. On being an employee at Hedgewards the author had outlined what they had considered to be significant, but now irrelevant information. There, as now, the author had been a prisoner. At least at Hedgewards the author had been a little more fooled. Now…well the only hope now for everyone was if Harry would act upon what he had been sent.


	5. Conjurists

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Conjurism as an idea has started in Europe and had begun in Britain in the North of England, originally as an idea, a feeling, filtering out like sunlight through clouds as dawn begins. It began with humans who, with their magic, began to think: where is _my_ place in the world? Where is my influence? Why, when we used to be so influential, are we treated no longer treated, for having magic, as…_special_?

It was an idea which had encouragement from many sections of society, unconsciously by the wholehearted and enthusiastic magical celebrations such as Halloween, and other local festivals? Where, being of magic meant wearing the garb of a witch or wizard, and calling foul when asked to do something which means they would not be recognised as such – removing cloaks and hats in public buildings, or handing in their wand for security. Both of these had been so commonplace fifteen years before it was hardly worth calling to attention.

They embraced the Auld magic, the magic of the earth, magic which the furthest reaches of magical ancestry could have accessed, when the choice of wand amounted to pulling off the branch of the nearest tree and hoping for the best.

When ritual was connected to method: dancing three times round an oak tree naked holding hands with your family resulted in a higher crop yield than twice or four times, the oak tree had to be no younger than fifty years, at least a hundred acorns and it had to be done in the light of the full moon (the last clause possibly related to convenience rather than magical method, and nudity may well have been someone's idea of a practical joke). In such a way magic was tamed, improved on, used, passed on in the form of a ritual. That was the Auld magic, it was derived from nature and came from the earth.

And then magic was improved, hi-jacked if you like, by well-meaning wizards with the aim of improving the lives of both the magical and non-magical – the first spell books began to be written where running developments and research was documented (if three stirs of the hair-growing potion resulted in a quicker result, what would happen with four? Would a different spell have a better effect? What about different ingredients? How many?) And so on, until the Auld magic became Modern, which had been refined and displaced from the magic of the earth over several centuries.

Research, through the efforts primarily of wizards in magical institutions began to be written down for all wizards to access, it being their birthright to access effective, up-to-date spells for their own use. And they published their work indiscriminately, the improved efficacy of dark, terrible spells printed next to ones which changed the colour of begonias by blinking at them.

Centuries of misuse of such spells, especially directed to the non-wizard population of the world and the resulting distrust of magic by non-wizards necessitated the introduction of policing of spells by countries' governing Ministries. And, shortly following this was the birth of the Reciprocators, whose primary role was to liaise between wizards and non-wizards, to allow the free-flow of ideas and to negotiate when misunderstandings or conflict between both cultures arose.

So when scientific ideas and developments in the non-wizard world took hold: medicinal, chemical, mathematical, engineering, botanically and so on, Reciprocators were there, discussing, refining, conferring and ultimately liaising with wizards with parallel roles in magic, bridging wizards and non-wizards discreetly and effectively.

And so it is easy to understand, with knowledge of both wizard tradition and scientific understanding, that there was no coincidence that seats of magical wisdom or gatherings took place at high altitude: lower blood pressure made for clearer thinking and more accurate spells thus making the channelling of magical energy easier. Single-gender gatherings were most effective for the same, blood-pressure lowering effects.

Which comes to both the current role of Reciprocators now, here in this alternative world, as magic-science researchers like Tabitha Penwright and the unique challenges that conjurists posed. For, though the face of conjurists are many-faceted, stemming from numerous and often conflicting motives, the effects of their actions were ultimately powerful and appealing, especially to the pompous and overbearing, badly informed, ignorant, affronted reactionaries, recoiling from imagined sidelining of the importance of magic.

Oh, conjurism had started out innocently enough as these things do, with "Auld Magic", rose and it became fashionable for those of the magical persuasion to have a copy of the book prominently placed on their best bookshelf, proud and bold. I am a wizard, it said to anyone who saw it. This is a place of magic. That you had just arrived there by floo or broom was irrelevant to the statement.

And when groups of people feel isolated and marginalised it takes very little for them to old onto things to which they feel an affinity,. Nor does it take much for them to believe with little question facts which deep down they really do believe to be true even if it is distasteful of them to speak it openly. It was groups of people such as these who need a charismatic, believable figurehead

The conjurists were the distinct group to form from the slowly polarising group of citizens. Not for them the Auld magic tabernacle merely shelved in their dwellings. They sought to commune with ancestors from the past, their ancestors whose next step from discovering fire was learning how to procure it simply out of thin air. Not for them the flint and twig.

Some conjurists spent time analysing government moves and motives and deciding how they threatened wizarding ways of life, tutting as they read in the Daily Prophet how some discrepancy between wizards and non wizards had been overcome, the policy of non-wizard admission to Hedgewards being the latest wasp-in-the-bonnet.

For others who dwelt on selective parts of common history they homed in on perceived patriotism, pageants and celebrations being over-emphasised and deep emotion provoked as being vital to being a witch or a wizard. Some, and this was the group which was growing frighteningly quickly in number, went much further, anticipating perceived challenges to magic as an entity and choosing severe methods with which to counter them. One of these was the issue of half-breeds.

Human-magical creature mating had existed probably as long as there had been humans and magical creatures and, as individual groups were tolerated. But in the last couple of decades wizards with far too much time on their hands, were part of the latter type of conjurist, or probably both had had ideas of their own.

In Britain, as in other countries throughout the world, half-breed creatures were supposed to be registered in their country of birth with possible inherent risks being noted. This was a nonthreatening process – vampires, werewolves, giants and so on were keen on registration as a means of operating according to their own culture but within the framework of acceptability in society (vampires were not allowed to practice on humans, for example). It served as reassurance to non-wizards whose fears were allayed on trust.

It was a system that had worked for almost two centuries, co-incidentally the same amount of time the Reciprocators had been in operation. It was no co-incidence in fact, it was one of the first things the movement had put in place, beneficial to all involved and demonstrating that their role was important and needed.

But the growth of unregistered half-breeds had increased a hundred-fold over the last three years. And not only that the practice cross breeding, resulting in offspring whose qualities were unidentified and unknown. These conjurists were arrogant – they felt they had the right to behave as they liked, use magic in their own way without regard to the law, neither moral or civil code. And it was such cross-bred half-breeds which Sirius and Remus had been sent to investigate, two of which had attacked them viciously.

If the above account sounds bureaucratic and dry, that's because it is. It had been written by Caelius as a summary of the situation that threatened the world that the Reciprocators did and was originally written for Aberforth Dumbledore as a summary critique. Now he had updated it, in his own fastidious, politician-like manner. He couldn't help it – Caelius Lupin was a born administrator who thought and could negotiate in a manner that made him suitable for government and as such felt the circumstances surrounding Conjurists needed to be stated in as factual and non-biased manner as he could possibly make it. He had also updated the account because of his current precarious position. He put down his quill and replaced it in his hand with his wand.

"Securos!" Caelius uttered, watching the long parchment contract into a roll. It would not be able to be opened unless someone knew the correct pass-keyword to open it. Getting to his feet Caelius picked up the scroll and, walking across his damp office (torrential rain had persisted with infrequent thunderstorm bursts) to a section of the wall which was like any other. Drawing a square with his wand against the wetness a bright score of light followed his wand-tip until the shape was complete. With his free hand Caelius took the handle of the door which appeared, opening the safe and depositing the scroll.

He tapped the door, which dissolved back into the dampness and he watched it for a second, wondering if it would come to anyone actually reading what he had just written. Perhaps, he considered, and they would marvel at his characteristic verbosity. He hoped that no-one picked up on the guilt he was feeling from his part in sending his brother, and Sirius Black too, into such danger.

Ultimately though, conjurism was a desperate grasp towards something familiar, something to cling to, something which was theirs alone, which defined them as "with magic", and set them apart from muggles. It challenged everything that was morally right and best for society and so it was correct for both the Combined Government and the Reciprocators to challenge conjurism. Ultimately, through fear dreadful, far-reaching effects would be felt. Ultimately, would the difference that Cecilia Frobisher made by altering the past be significant, or would human nature, that of both those magical and non-magical, over arch all?

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The wind blew over the high flat plain that was the top of Pendle Hill. Long ago the sun had descended the horizon and now, even the afterlight, the dusk, was beginning to flee. There had been people assembled here, magical people, moreover. They had met, as covens and clans had done (so they believed) in one of the most magical places in the country, if not the world.

If they had considered that such clandestine meetings both ancient and modern had been called thereupon because it was close for people to walk to, yet remote enough to be private, and that the weather, often damp, kept most inquisitive people away they would probably not actually have been there.

"Is it not unreasonable to say that our ways need to be preserved?" The words flickered as their medium tumbled and tossed around on the ground, shreds of discarded parchment for the torn pamphlet from a conjurists meeting that evening. "Much that was our heritage has become scoured away, blended into nothing along with tax returns and…"

Now, all there was to read it was a small brown rabbit who had risked the semi-open (and therefore the prospect of being course two on some bird-of-prey's menu). Not that it could read. And even if it could, what value would it have placed on the latest conjurist missive, circulated like wildfire around groups of like-minded wizards and witches from Pristina to Donegal? Not for it were cares of wrong-doing against the wizard populace. What did it care for wizards anyway? It surely would have thanked its lucky stars it were not white and therefore at risk of being pulled out of a top hat by its ears.

"Once, wizards were noble and proud, and through our nobility we did not subject non-wizards to tyranny or slavery. Indeed, one of our most revered number even set up the Grand Discussion so as to better understand non-wizards."

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately (it depends upon your point of view) the declaration would remain lost amongst the bracken and hedgerow, eventually allowing its inanimate form to be battered and torn. It had been deprived of its destiny through haste and carelessness, and had not been sent through the well-disguised routes of communication to other conjurists meetings.

"But our culture has now been overshadowed and we have been sidelined. Our input is unvalued and all too often ignored. Our reception by many including some of our own can be one of belittlement or worse, hostility.

Many conjurists who had been there that night had been scared, especially considering the author purported to have written the pamphlet. For many, to separate themselves from ordinary society and to live by the examples in "Auld Magic" had been quite controversial. Perhaps it had been the shock of change of entrance regulations to Hedgewards that year which had been the catalyst, making them feel conjurism was a haven from perceived threats to their culture. Maybe some had been reluctant because of conjurists' open hostility or separation from non-wizards in their everyday lives.

"What we ask of the Council of Europe is the recognised right to practise our culture as outlined in the book of "Auld Magic" and…"

It was not the first pamphlet, and nor would it be the last. But it had had an effect on those who had read it that night and had germinated enmity in the hearts of many. Enmity, yes, but there would also be hatred, conflict and destruction. Just as the author had planned.

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It was so late at night it was beginning to become early. Not that Caelius could sleep; he had spurned his ministerial flat which had been a blessing and returned to his family, his childhood home in the Lake District, not far from Little Langdale, tucked away in the hard, rugged landscape of Cumbria. It was a bed he would have preferred not to have used, the spare one which he knew Cecilia always had insisted be made up for emergency guests.

It had been his sister-in-law who he thought about as he watched the proto-dawn hint at its imminent arrival, breaking of momentarily as a small thump down the corridor drew his attention. Heaving himself out of bed Caelius stumbled towards the door, looking down the corridor and towards Septimus's room. The door was closed. It wasn't his nephew getting up, then.

Caelius turned and made his way back to bed, but not to sleep. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling as he thought about Cecilia again. He knew Septimus missed his mother; he had told him the night before when he had asked about her return the truth about her, or at least, a portion of the truth. It was a truth which he had not shared with anyone else, not the ministry (for whom she was technically working, although under Caelius's instruction). The truth was that she was missing. No form of communication had he received close to six weeks and, on enquiring with his contact at Durmstrang her collaborator had informed him that she had left with all of her belongings.

It had been the last thing Caelius had wanted to share with his shy nephew, the image of his father with the exception of his hair which, though fair like Remus's, had a hint of red in it, Cecilia's colouring. But he had had to inform the boy of his father's precarious grip on life (or abnormal life, Caelius had added to himself) and Septimus had taken the news in his characteristic withdrawn manner. On the face of it, were anyone to judge quickly, Septimus had listened to his uncle and then taken up the dishes, washed them, before studying his Chocolate Frog cards. But Caelius knew Septimus. The boy's brain would be feverishly active, thinking about all that his uncle had told him. In time, he would talk to Caelius of his concerns.

Missing, yes. But Ragnhild Anderssen had seen her walking out of the castle grounds with her sparse possessions, her research abandoned but her books gone. Where she had gone Caelius did not know; he had had his best agents out looking for her since Cecilia's disappearance two weeks before, picking up any leads, or suggestions of leads. There had been precious few and, though Caelius had followed up each and every one of them, all had led him to a dead end.

It was worrying to say the least, especially considering the growing wizard unrest in certain parts of the country, and the continent, with their illegal and illicit magical endeavours, one of which had seriously injured his brother. Caelius still had the practicalities of integrating a non-wizard into Hedgewards to consider too; though James's intentions were good Caelius had to admit he was a little too laid back for his liking, the work taking far longer than he'd expected.

And, of course, though his brother's horrific incapacitation he had his nephew to care for, so quiet one might have sworn he had blended into the walls of the room (and sometimes he did, for hi-jinks), so deep in thought and so content being alone that Caelius had considered sending him to live with the Potters just to get a bit of life into him. Caelius sighed as he considered the Potters and the rest of the Reciprocators. He knew he would have to share the essence of his account of conjurists with the movement as well as Cecilia's disappearance at their meeting on Monday.

Getting out of bed a second time and putting the Pandora's box of thoughts back into his mind, securing it firmly, Caelius pulled on his clothes as light clamoured for entry through the gaps in the curtains. Then he made his way out onto the landing once again, walking swiftly and quietly towards Septimus's bedroom door.

"Portus!" he intoned, waving his wand, turning the door handle, on both sides of the door, into a port key which would take him to wherever Caelius was. If he used it within the next half an hour or so wherever Caelius was would be at Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

"I don't know what would be best for them surviving or not surviving." Caelius stirred his tea which James Potter had magicked for him on the coffee table in Grimmauld Place's living room five minutes later. James had clearly opted to stay at Sirius's house the previous evening, extending his shift "on call" for another night to cover for his poor friend. Caelius had found him dozing on the sofa in the same clothes he had been in the previous day and James had jumped out of a deep sleep when Caelius had clapped his hand onto his shoulder.

"His injuries…" James continued his point before trailing off, shaking his head and looking into his half-empty cup, the toast he had magicked cooling rapidly as he ignored it. "Both of their injuries…"

"Last night I went to Hedgewards," replied Caelius carefully. He looked deliberately at his fellow Reciprocator, his face full of meaning. "I saw Severus." There was a pause.

"You say you saw Severus?" Another pause and a look of knowing passed between the two wizards.

"You have me James," admitted Caelius. "I did ask him about a cure, and believe me when I say that I pressed. Nothing would relieve me of the burden of knowing that my brother being so ill and knowing that I could give little Tim some good news if Severus Snape handed me a vial of something." Just like he did for me, Caelius added, but to himself.

"Little Tim," mused James fondly. "How is Septimus? It must be awful, living with you." He looked concernedly at Caelius, who sagged. It was far too grave a situation to pick up on an ill-chosen phrase.

"Worryingly well, "replied Caelius. "We discussed schools – I wanted to get the choice over with but I think that was a bad move and – "

"- he'll be going to Hedgewards, surely?" James's incredulous tone left little room for rebuttal. Caelius however shook his head.

"I don't know. He has magical ability,that is certain. But Remus, and Cecilia too, they both wanted him to choose. They live…lived – "

"Live," stated James firmly.

" – out in the wilds of Cumberland, as you know, but Cecilia had had her eye on a local school similar to one she attended. Who knows, he may well have decided to go there."

"What? And not develop his magic? Unthinkable!" He looked sharply towards Caelius who seemed to have reacted to this comment. "I mean…you, Caelius, it was a different time and, well, Hedgewards would have held you back."

"But I went, though," mused Caelius grimly. "Four years at home in the cottage with my parents bringing me books. Long walks into lonely countryside to practise. I had a tutor, but…not much of an education. And then Remus went to Hedgewards and he went to Aberforth pleading my case. So intolerant to an injustice that he was prepared to stand, as a first year, in front of the headmaster's door and plead my case."

"I think Dumbledore suspected Snape had a plan up his sleeve," chuckled James, remembering how Severus Snape seemed to have known all that Hedgewards would have taught him in terms of potions. Old Taftey-boy despaired at ever teaching him anything – he was researching and developing before his first year was out! He had been to Aberforth before with plans for a host of things."

"Or rather, he planted the idea in Snape's mind. A challenge to keep old Severus in check," Caelius returned quietly, before changing the subject and adding, "but education is not the same as it was – it'll be truly comprehensive now, James. Wizards and non-wizards too can go to Hedgewards, both together. A chance to truly understand one another as they live and grown with one another!"

James frowned, looking at Caelius. Do you really believe that, he thought, or are you still carrying out Aberforth's vision. Aloud, he said, "it still all seems…"

"Stop," protested Caelius, getting to his feet. "Whatever you're about to say I would hate you to sound like a bloody conjurist." This time it was James's turn to be sharp.

"I can understand Septimus must be a burden, especially at a time such as this, Caelius. I'm not being a conjurist. I just believe in streaming. Specialities." Both wizards looked at one another again, this time a whisper of disharmony between them. Caelius looked at his now-cold toast. He wished he had eaten it, for his stomach now sounded like a tiger had taken up residence. Then Caelius realised that silence was reigning, and had been for several minutes.

"It was time I left, James," said Caelius, glancing back towards the fireplace. "If I could have your proposals on the reasonable adjustments you think would be suitable at our meeting on Tuesday please, I'd me most grateful." Before turning, he added, "please give Lily my best."

"Septimus too," returned James, calmly. "It looks as if the boy's going to need."

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Instead of returning to the cottage Caelius returned to his office. It would be better, he decided, if he were to use Remus and Cecilia's home as a base that day, it being Sunday and there being no school to take Septimus's mind off his considerable woes. Perhaps he would take the lad to see his father assuming, that is, Severus was going to actually produce some potion which would take away the effects of the vampire.

At least Sirius had fared slightly better, having been bitten by the werewolf. Snape had almost confirmed that he had attuned the standard lycanthropy potion to suit the injuries Sirius had suffered but would he not just say so? Severus Snape was as cryptic as the Times crossword –

Caelius's thoughts broke off suddenly when, as he leaned on the handle of his office door, his grip, hand and fingerprint pattern being recognised by the Ministry's own secure "Amicitia" and "Cave Inimicum" spells, and looked at the scene. All that could accurately describe the scene would be to say that it looked like an explosion in a paper factory which had then had the entire contents of the British Library shredded on top of it, the lot being put into a large tumble dryer and whirled at high speed for several minutes before a pack of wild dogs had been allowed to investigate it frenetically.

In several places small, localised fires were smouldering or waning where Caelius's "Confringo" spells placed on several important documents which were now destroyed by the intruders.

"Priori Incantantem!" "Deletrius!" Caelius, now on his guard in the apparently empty room, surveyed the damage as the contents of his filing cabinets returned them to their original places in a snow-flurry of paper. As the paper re-ordered itself, Caelius performed an accountability spell, followed by an unlawful entry spell to check if the intruder had left any trace of who they might be. Nothing. Caelius shook his head as he considered the situation, before stooping down and picking up a piece of paper which had not been filed. Just then, his attention was called to a knock on the open office door. Lucius Malfoy stood, open-mouthed at the mess.

"I think there's been an intruder," said Caelius unnecessarily. "But I've checked, nothing has actually gone missing."

"That is a relief," replied Lucius, smiling a little. Here, in this world, far from being a threat to honest wizards he was a trusted member of the Ministry, a head of department with whom Caelius would meet that evening along with several others.

"But I think they were after information on Cecilia Lupin," he replied, watching as Lucius's eyebrows rose in thorough surprise. As far as the higher echelons of the Ministry were concerned Cecilia was doing Caelius's work in Germany, at the castle at Durmstrang.

"She went missing, a fortnight ago," he continued, then stopped abruptly. "Look, I'll detail everything at out meeting this evening; I've had my best people on it since I knew, and I had to give it time to find out what has happened." Caelius shook his head as he handed to Lucius the pamphlet he had just found on the floor, one piece of paper which had never belonged in his filing cabinet and had, presumably been dropped by the intruder. Lucius shook his head, his long hair moving in the wake, and blinking at the words that his colleague was showing him.

"Conjurists?" Caelius nodded.

"Not just your 'dance around in your undies' lot either," he added, "not ours. Look – " Caelius pointed to the printing information at the bottom of the pamphlet. "It went to the press, a non-wizard printing press; the author didn't have it magicked. But I know these marks, they're from the Mainz press."

"Why do you think these particular conjurists are interested in Mrs Lupin?" The question hung between them like a dagger frozen in mid-throw by a permanent sticking charm, adhering the words to the air.

"It was I who sent her there," Caelius revealed, more than he would like under Malfoy's steely expression, one which challenged Caelius, though he did not mean to. But it didn't matter; the heads would be far wiser of several facts relating to conjurists that evening. "Where she might be, I don't know." But I can guess, he added to himself.

"Your evidence will be vital to our meeting this evening," replied Lucius coolly. "You haven't forgotten that you will address the Heads' Council?" The heads of department, under the presidency of the Minister for magic, would be sitting in the lowest chamber and hearing the vital months' issues, evidence from Caelius, as head of security and espionage being critical to the conjurist threat.

"Indeed," Caelius nodded. It had been foremost in his mind for several hours as he refined and rewrote in his head what he would say.

"With the uprising in conjurists I am sure we will have to introduce stricter, draconian measures. It'll be the only way," Lucius added gravely.

"But isn't that against the unified government?"

"What choice do we have? These are emergency measures." Caelius found himself nodding. What more of an emergency could it be when two Reciprocators, his brother and a close friend no less, had been so horrifically mauled?

"We'll have to destroy the half-breeds, we had no choice though it was difficult," Lucius continued silkily as he glanced back at the pamphlet, "we've not released the information, there would be an outcry. Those who believe in half-breed equality would not understand and we do not wish to cause controversy with things so delicately in the balance." Caelius looked away before fixing Lucius with a weary stare

"I can't deal with this now, Lucius, could you make the arrangements for the meeting? Regulus? Mick Mullen? Yourself, of course.

"But of course. Join us when you can; we need to sort this out." Lucius would begin the meeting that morning but Caelius was not needed until that evening.

"Yes, indeed we do." Lucius bowed slightly before leaving Caelius alone. He glanced around the room again before waving his wand and adding to the usual Ministry protections a "Confundus" spell. If the intruder were to return then the spell would become overtly confused, enough to hopefully forget their purpose. Caelius then walked swiftly through his office door, securing it with half a dozen extra spells, charms and anti-hexes.

Now it was time to see Tim and, in light of the fact he had not been transported via his bedroom door-handle portkey to Caelius, it meant his nephew was still in bed. Perhaps a good breakfast would see the young man right. It certainly couldn't do him any harm; Septimus always looked on the lean side to him, like his father. And the tiger in his own stomach, growling away, also needed taming.


	6. Tim

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Septimus Lupin looked at the rising sunlight through the mist of the dew that was slowly evaporating in the warmth of the dawn. Sitting as he was on the roof of his home, a cottage in the Lake District, the eleven-year-old had cast an umbrella spell to protect him from the damp. His mother, he remembered, had always warned him away from damp and, as Septimus was sitting in his pyjamas in the open, moist air around him, this would certainly fall under his mother's definition of the word damp. He closed his eyes, imagining her face, softly outlined as it appeared in his mind's eye.

That he was sitting on the slate roof rather than standing at his uncle's side was due to the fact that he had left his bedroom through the window, clung onto the cast iron drainpipe and inched his way to the summit. It was a move Septimus had long practiced and therefore he had never touched his door handle, which Caelius had made into a portkey.

The cottage was not his home, however. Septimus's home was a couple of hundred miles south, near to where his mother had grown up. It _had _been his home, where he had grown up, lived, made friends…but when his mother had gone away to teach at Durmstrang school a couple of years his Uncle had agreed with his father that the best place for Septimus was there, in the Lupin family cottage, not Edgeford.

His father was ill, Caelius had told him, in the same kind, sad tone as he had told him that his mum would not yet be home. So now, with his uncle away from the cottage that morning, Septimus was alone. It was a strangely pleasing situation – Septimus had always felt happy in his own company. There was so much of the world he didn't feel he fitted into and was far more confident after he had sat alone and thought, rather than discussing them at length with anyone. The only person he had ever really spoken and confided in was his mum, but of course, that was typical of all children. Even Freya.

And even Freya had gone. Tim loved his adopted sister, and she had doted on him. But her rebellious streak had caused her and his mother to disagree and it had been decided that she should live with Nymphadora Tonks and Nick Smith, in their modern town house forty miles away in Whitehaven. Tonks was good influence, mum had said, and Freya had been delighted too. But she had been sad to have left Septimus behind and he had asked her to visit when she could, and he had promised to do the same.

He closed his eyes again. Septimus could see the image of his mother behind his eyelids again, a picture which grew ever dimmer as the days and weeks passed. It wasn't as if Septimus hadn't had the opportunity to visit her at her new place of work, at Durmstrang School, Septimus had wanted to go but Uncle Kay had forbidden it. Well, not actually forbidden as such, more avoided the subject when Septimus had brought it up, or said things like, "soon" and "we'll see".

And now she was missing. Caelius, in his usual way when he was imparting bad news, had sat him down on the ancient furniture in the cottage, the patterned fabric clashing with the brown and orange curtains, and told him. He could tell Caelius didn't want to tell him; in fact he had thought that Uncle Kay had wanted to speak to him about which secondary school he was to attend.

Septimus had spoken to Sam Potter on the subject when he had invited Septimus to the Reciprocator headquarters for his eleventh birthday a couple of months ago. Septimus liked 12, Grimmauld Place – he had grown up knowing the wizards who did such an important social and public service and a large part of him wanted to be a Reciprocator too, like his father. But he would have to go to Hedgewards, to develop his magical talent, but in his heart of hearts Septimus knew that his mother would have wanted him to go to the feeder school to his Borrowdale primary school, in Penrith. In fact, any non-wizard school would have pleased his mother, Septimus knew, and he knew this because it was one of the last things she had confided to him.

He needed to go to Hedgewards if he wanted a career that was magical, for magic needed training unless it was to become wild, Uncle Kay had explained. It suited all children with magic, no matter how small and Septimus had listened while his uncle had explained the scheme that he was developing, to start that September.

Freya had wanted to be a wizard and, when she was fourteen, she'd slipped into Hedgewards somehow and had tried to masquerade as a witch, with the help of some friends. The deception had lasted a whole week before anyone noticed.

Septimus's mind was brought to the present by a light summer breeze which tickled his cheek. He watched a pair of swallows dart around the far mountainside of Helvellyn, the yellow moorland glowing in the morning sunshine as the birds gurgled and cawed to one another. In the distance cirrus clouds patched the blue and beyond was a small tarn in which beautiful fish swam unaware of the fact that later that day they would be ensnared by man-made traps and beguilements.

His father had taken him walking in the countryside around the Lupin cottage, they would track birds and deer, watch for insects and observe fish in the mountain tarns. His father liked to catch the freshwater fish as he used to do with his uncle and he'd taught Septimus to fish too. They would catch many and store them in a keep net but every time Septimus would beg his father to free the fish, which he always did.

But not today. Today there would be no warm glow in his stomach as Septimus saw his uncle fly along the path on an ancient family broom (nought to sixty in an hour) begging them for details of their expedition. Not today would his adopted sister arrive back from a shopping trip to Carlisle or, if finances disallowed, Kendal. Today he would have to sit alone in the cottage in which he had shared such marvellous times and just dream the dreams that eleven-year-olds had: of family, play and fun. It was either that or break down into frantic worry and, as his Freya had already done that (when she had arrived at the cottage with Tonks the previous evening to listen to Uncle Kay tell her what he had told him) Septimus reasoned, and it had not made their situation any better, he thought he'd best save his energy.

A few days ago his mother had gone missing, Uncle Kay had explained, and the day before yesterday his father ending up in hospital. Gravely ill he had heard the Healer say when his Uncle had taken him to the hospital. He had not seen his father and his uncle had then returned to Septimus's family home in Edgeford, securing it with a host of spells. Septimus had not had much time to see his old home and when he looked at the steep steps which led to the front door, the blue garage to the right and entry which led down the side of the house to the kitchen a lump had appeared in his throat. He had seen too that on the kitchen table were some of his mother's things, potions, chemicals, flasks, books…it was as if she had been there recently and he had been glad that Uncle Caelius had returned quickly or he might have called out to her.

Septimus knew that his mother had worked closely with Severus Snape professionally and in his mind's eye could imagine the Hedgewards' Headmaster's words as his research partner had gone. He had closed his eyes instead and pictured her face. She looked pale and delicate, as if one tap on her shoulder would have caused a crack so severe she would have crumbled before him. She drew Septimus towards her, hugging him close.

"Tim. Be brave, my son," he imagined her saying, for they were the last words she had whispered in his ear before she had left for Durmstrang. And that was the last that Septimus Lupin had seen of his mother.

"Keep him safe, Caelius." This time it had been his Uncle who had spoken the words and he too was looking in at the kitchen window. "That was what your mother asked me to do," he continued, hugging Septimus around the shoulders. Moments later Uncle Kay had transported them back to St. Mungo's, where his father was and where he took Septimus into the ward where both he and Sirius Black were lying. He then explained to Septimus that they shouldn't be there after hours but he was certain Septimus would want to see his father.

Septimus had been worried about what his dad would be like; he knew St. Mungo's was a wizard's last resort once non-wizard hospitals had done what they could and he had been glad he had gone, more especially because when Freya had come later that evening, he would be able to exchange a hug from his big sister for some news that their father was resting peacefully.

More importantly however, it was the last chance he would have to see his father before he was quarantined – Septimus had been sitting on the landing when Lucius Malfoy's head had appeared in the fireplace and explained the situation to Caelius. Septimus did not know why this had happened but the word "gravely" it had dwelt in his mind.

Gravely.

Septimus knew it meant "seriously" but there was a part of him that felt it meant something different. Grave-ly. Of a grave.

The kitchen door opened and closed below Septimus's room in his uncle's cottage and this perked him out of his gloomy thoughts. Uncle Kay was usually home around lunchtime and often brought him something tasty from the Ministry canteen. Yesterday it had been a brie and grape sandwhich whose semi-melted condition had merely enhanced the flavour. What would today bring?

"Septimus!" Caelius Lupin pushed open the adjoining kitchen-to-living room door which creaked woodenly. "Are you – "

"I'm here," gasped Septimus, shouting through his bedroom window before descending the roof, swinging into his room in a well-practiced manoeuvre and then racing down the stairs to see his uncle. Two weeks of close confinement in a small cottage in the Lake District, following the end of the school year, had taught Septimus to appreciate any hint of company.

" – there? There you are!" From out of his robe Caelius Lupin pulled a tin-foil-wrapped parcel which he placed on the teak table and over which he cast his wand. "Quiche today," he explained, gesturing towards the steam-enrobed silver object. "And some lemon-and-lime pop."

"Thank you," replied Septimus gratefully, taking the can from Caelius and within seconds he was downing the cheese and onion pastie as his uncle sat next to him.

"How has your day been so far? Any visitors?" Septimus shook his head, nodding towards the grate.

"I think there might have been a message so I let the floo network have it."

"Good lad," replied Caelius. "I'll check that later."

The conversation died away to nothing. Only the sound of the foil on Septimus's knee made a sound, crunching as the boy sought the last few morsels of left-over quiche. After a few moments, once Septimus had leaned over and put his hand over his uncle's, which still contained his wand (Caelius let Septimus hold it as he levitated the foil into the kitchen bin like a father allowing a child to sit on their lap and hold the steering wheel of a car and pretend they were driving) Caelius leaned back on the brown textured settee.

"Have you considered what I said to you last night, Septimus?" He waited for his nephew to turn and look at him.

"Uncle Kay," Septimus began but Caelius Lupin put his finger to his mouth, his moustache resting momentarily on its tip.

"Before answering, I wanted you to know that your father, and your mother too, always wanted you to have a choice. Your father and I, and all of the people of our age never got the opportunity to choose. But this is a new world, one which your mother, the Reciprocators, the Headmaster of Hedgewards, the Ministry and Miss Penwright too helped to create."

Silence. Septimus felt it was necessary to at least honour the information his uncle was imparting to him even though he already knew about it. He knew about other things too, things which he knew would upset his uncle if he were to talk about them to Uncle Kay, relevant as they might be to his mother's disappearance and his father's illness.

"So Septimus," continued Caelius and Septimus got the clear impression that silence had reigned a little too long and his uncle suspected he wasn't concentrating. "Do you wish to develop your magical abilities?"

"Yes, Uncle Kay. But I don't want to go to Hedgewards." Caelius nodded, and then frowned towards his nephew.

"I'll give you a little longer, and perhaps I speak to the Headmaster at Hedgewards and ask him whether you can have a look round in the holidays when it's quiet." Caelius got to his feet and began to stride purposefully towards the door through which he had come fifteen minutes before and turned, taking in Septimus's worried expression. "Don't worry. It is early days…you've only just started your summer holidays. I only ask because these things take time to organise." Septimus returned his uncle's addendum with an open mouth before sighing deeply.

"Are you saying that mum won't be found and dad won't be well before I have to go to school?"

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This time the parcel arrived with a forceful knock on the door. Had it been three o'clock in the afternoon Harry might well have thought ill of the postal service that the mail had come so late. Funnily enough the contrary thought did not cross his mind as he stumbled out of bed, Hermione snoring gently beside him, curling her slender hands around his pillow in her sleep as he moved: no benevolent feelings for such a promptness of service that mail had arrived at three in the morning.

Harry tried not to fall down the stairs as he descended them, holding onto the handrail every so often as the realisation of gravity and the necessity to step carefully permeated his still half-awake brain. Yawning widely Harry put his hand on the latch, turned the lock, withdrew his hand, reached for the set of keys which lay on the ancient telephone table adjacent the door, fumbled for the front door key, forced it into the lock, turned it and opened the door.

The coldness of the clear night air hit his face unexpectedly and Harry inhaled, the coolness causing him to come to much quicker. He looked down and at the brown-papered, string-bound parcel on the doorstep. Harry rubbed his eyes and stretched before bending down and scooping it up. He blinked at the name on the front – his name – and turned to the back. No sender's address, as per the last couple of parcels.

Mrs Lupin again? Why would she be delivering parcels to people in the middle of the night? Come to think of it, didn't he recall that she was not even in Britain at the moment. Harry stepped back inside and closed the door, locking up and throwing the keys onto the low table. He was far too tired to read it now, more intrigue and mystery again, intriguing though it was likely to be. Making his way into the living room he put the parcel down onto the octagonal mahogany-veneered coffee table before turning in the darkness and making his way back to the stairs again.

"Take the trouble to read it, you fool!" Down the road, but near enough to still be able to see Harry's house the courier watched the house. Then the living room light illuminated the becurtained window as the fool cast off his mantle and was now, presumably, investigating the parcel.

It had occurred to Harry that the writing was not the same as the other two parcels. This fact had struck him as he had made his first weary step onto the staircase. That, and the fact it had been hand-delivered rather than posted made it different too.

Ten minutes later, with Hermione blissfully unaware in her peaceful slumber that Harry's mind was now not only well awake but was being astonished, flabbergasted, dumbfounded, taken aback by what he was reading, the accompanying letter, and that before he had opened the parcel the whole world was simple and now it was suddenly very complicated, the courier turned, knowing that Harry must be reading it. It was a weighty tome, and had the potential to confuse…would it occur to Harry Potter to what was necessary…? To take the first step?

He knew that he had begun it. He had not delivered it to Harry Potter, unreadable as it was at present due to the absence of words on its pages, in order to confuse. But had he not done so the ball would not have begun rolling, the events would not tumble and spiral. Cecilia would not be found…

He held her image in his mind for a moment before allowing it to fade away. Severus Snape disappeared into the darkness.


	7. It's only a Game

"It's flat, it's dull

It's Kingston-upon-Hull

K-ing-ston, K-ing-ston!"

The chant echoed from the stands where the opposition's fans had managed, for once to unite the rhythm of the taunt, its words audible and stinging. Nudging his friend Arthur Thwaite pointed to the scrum half, who had dropped the ball and had allowed the Castleford Tigers' centre-forward to wrestle it to his team.

To say that it had gone badly for the Robins was an understatement. They were already near the bottom of the league table and their reputation as a professional team was slipping fast. Heading for division one, the up-and-coming young Tigers team would be more than happy to take their place in the Super League and the old stalwarts of the game would have to face the humiliation of defeat, something which had not happened in a long time.

"They're for it!" replied Dan Newgate, shaking his head. "We've not been whipped this badly since the fifties!" He glanced at the scoreboard. It was unbelievable that the Robins had scored only a try that game, the speedy winger had grounded the ball within minutes of the game beginning. But after that it was as if the whole team had been running around in treacle, ungainly and clumsily, missing easy opportunities and simple pass-and-runs.

Another chorus of "K-ing-ston!" erupted from the Craven Park stands as the Tigers' centre half had, along with a stand-off, neatly headed off Hull's number 5 winger and had passed it to a fronter who had, unusually, taken the opportunity for a kick at the goal. Over the centre bar it had flown and now, at half-time, the likelihood of Hull even equalling the Tigers' impressive 3 to 28.

"Come on," Daniel continued as Arthur nursed his head on his friend's shoulder. "A pint'll sort us out. It can't do any harm, at least," he added as the teams filed off the pitch. Arthur shook his head and stared at the Tigers' fans, hugging and cheering as they, too, were heading for the bar. A pint'd be good, a good, Yorkshire pint. He looked at Daniel.

"What're they doing out there?" he asked as they descended the steps. "They're being slaughtered by some soft Lancashire wusses!"

"Come on," said Daniel, ushering his friend towards the bar where he swiftly ordered two pints of lager. It was no time to point out to his friend that Castleford was their side of the Pennines, in Yorkshire too.

"It might get better second half," he said encouragingly, placing the drink beside his friend. "They've had a good go at us, true," he conceded as Arthur gave him a disbelieving look, "but, you never know what could happen."

"You might be right," sighed Arthur, sounding unconvinced and defeated, holding the glass and sipping the lager as if it was the last honest thing in the world. "'appen were right about this pint."

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A log cabin nestling on a craggy outcrop in the wilds of Switzerland. There was a reason that the country was independent of foreign influences, had a variety of languages, its own currency and manner of doing things and none of these had much to do with wealth, climate or history.

At the present moment, the cabin was surrounded by snow, thick and deep on the Alpine slopes. It could have been the altitude, low pressure and unusual El Nino activity in the Atlantic which had caused three feet of it but it wasn't. Gellert Grindelwald just liked snow and felt that its location called for permanent winter-like conditions even in the height of summer.

He looked down, deep down, between the gneiss extrusions, Cuneformic in their angularity and mused at the contrast. Below, Zermatt bustled with the usual crowds of tourists snapping pictures, buying souvenirs, puzzling over the Swiss Franc-Euro exchange rate. Below was the heat of summer. Here, winter pervaded over the landscape within his desire.

Grindelwald looked over his shoulder. Classically, as any wizard's abode should be, the footprint of the tiny cabin belied its vast interior. How could it not? He and Albus Dumbledore, lovers though they were, needed enough space to _be_, to just exist. And then, of course, there was Albus's vast collection of books, a quantity to rival that of Durmstrang's own library, or even every library on the planet combined. How ever he found anything in the piles of parchment, books, old furniture and so on amazed even Dumbledore himself.

In contrast, Grindelwald preferred cool simplicity, openness, vastness and space. Perhaps it was his upbringing. The wilderness of the Norwegian plains he had grown tired of in his youth now had a familiar and nostalgic appeal, as did the Northern Lights. Grindelwald had desisted their recreation however, as it had attracted the attention of non-wizard UFO hunters – despite his whims and fancies Grindelwald knew he had to be careful if their extensive planning for their cause was to come to fruition.

He was alone, for the moment. Dumbledore had been in the Black Forest for several days and it had been going well. The vampire-breeders had expanded, heading for Britain's former colonies, South America and Asia. They knew that they would get a receptive audience amongst both enthusiasts and those of magical intent, especially those of a maligned nature and those who didn't give two hoots about international law.

Successes, of a sort, in many European countries were also taking seed. It had been Albus's idea of using the current law, both European Union and that of particular countries to force through the idea of conjurism. For how could any nation that considered itself civil and noble, who fought, and had fought, to defend freedom, both physically and morally, deny wizards their will to their heritage?

Grindelwald smoothed back his long, white hair. Once it had been yellow-blonde, and he had stood on this very rock as the wind tousled it as he savoured the air and felt the power of the earth. This time, he was the power. The power to change minds, to change lives, the lives of wizards and there would be a new social stratification where those with magic would be well and truly at the top.

Albus had been instrumental in many of the schemes so far, operating key factors with dexterity and sophistication. Without him, Grindelwald had to concede, they would not be as far as they were. And it had helped that his interfering, do-gooding brother Aberforth had come to an untimely death – untimely because it was, in his opinion, far too late.

Albus had been quick to point out to his lover where he had excelled. But it had been he, Gellert Grindelwald, who had the ace, who had the card which trumped any that Albus had. He would triumph, over Albus, over non-wizards, over the world. The whole world would know his name and would bow in supplication, trembling and quaking in awe. Albus did not know it but there was one more wizard, truly powerful, who would be the linchpin holding it all together.

He thrust his arms overhead into the flurries of snow at the thought. His winning card, that which beat any other, lay…below. The beast would give them what they wanted, in time. Especially when others delivered when he came to collect.

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"It's flat, it's dull

It's Kingston-upon-Hull

K-ing-ston, K-ing-ston!"

How hollow those words were now as the gold-and-black clothed Tigers walked off the pitch, shaking their heads, clapping one another on the back in commiseration and generally looked rightly annoyed and disappointed at the turn of events.

From the stands the echo of the chant towards the home team rang out, silently, ironically and, during most of the second half of the game little taunting of the Castleford's ill-luck had been meted out by the Robins' fans, mainly because the Tigers team was relatively new to the game and no-one had bothered trying to come up with a put-down for Castleford, Tigers or Wakefield.

In short, Hull had made a comeback, winning the game by 32 points to 29. How they had managed it was anyone's guess but it was a glorious thing to behold and, as Arthur pointed out, they would not have the ignominy of relegation next season.

The two friends had decided to go for a drink along the Beverley Road, just over the river to the west and near the city. It was a night for celebration and the news seemed to have spread: as they exited the stadium onto the Preston Road a crowd of locals were cheering almost as loudly as the fans in the stands had been half an hour before. Arthur noticed a couple of people he recognised and high-fived them as they went by.

"Brilliant!" he exclaimed to Daniel for the fiftieth time that evening. "What a result!"

"You'd never have predicted it, though," agreed his friend as the cool summer air whirled around them in the fading darkness. Others surged behind them. It was going to be one good night of celebration.

"I've texted Stuart," continued Dan as their path took them along the banks of the river to the footbridge which would take them to the Queensferry. "Him, Bozzer and Terry said they'd meet us in the "Oranges"."

"Great," nodded Arthur as they pressed on towards the better drinking establishments the old city had to offer. Being the summer too, with few university students would be around and they would be able to celebrate their emphatic victory.

Perhaps then would have been the moment that the two friends should have decided to take the better lit main road a route which, though longer, might have, in hindsight, been marginally safer. Ahead of them, as the Ferensway road lights glimmered the thought of an evening of celebratory drinking and jocularity distracted both of them until a roar and scream behind them on the riverbank brought both young men back into the cold reality of now.

"What was that?" whispered Arthur urgently.

"Dunno!" Dan put his hand on the back of the seemingly-frozen Arthur and pushed him in the opposite direction. "Come on!" Footsteps in the bare gloom echoed along the river's rough, overgrown cobbles and voices, possibly from five or six people, pierced the air.

"We know you did it!"

"Never!"

"Saw your lips moving, so we did."

"Get back to yer coach, it'll be leaving for Nowheresville in a few minutes, you Burberry-making chavs!"

A thump, possibly from a fist in the ribs, then a groan from the unfortunate individual seemed to indicate that their last sentence wasn't well received.

"And you scumbags say that to us? Hull's falling into the sea, you've no industry! You've – "

"Shut up Dave, and let me handle this." A pause and, from their hiding place on the other side of the deteriorating iron bridge Arthur could not only hear his heart hammering in his chest but also Dan's. He could feel his friend shaking too as a glint of metal in the moonlight indicated a knife was being wielded.

"You know, we had money on that game," continued the voice who had rebuked "Dave", his voice slow and staccatoed as if talking to an imbecile. "How – are – we – supposed to_ collect_ it, now you interfered?" It wasn't supposed to be like this, thought Arthur as he guiltily thought of his hand in the turn of events. Besides, this was Rugby! Rugby fans didn't behave like rabid gorillas – if you wanted mad brainless rage it was football you were looking for.

"It wasn't me!"

It wasn't him, thought Arthur. And besides, it was only a game!

"Stop it!" Another voice rang out in the darkness, possibly that of a woman.

"What're we going to do, Arthur?" Dan's voice was urgent. "We can't just leave them to fight it out!" without waiting for a reply from his friend Dan had taken out his mobile phone and was on the second nine before his friend dashed it from his hand. Arthur felt the indignant question beam out from his friend's eyes in the darkness.

"No. There's a wizard out there. Auld Magic. They'll be able to tell we're here."

"I'm warning you," said the possible-woman. "Put it down, or you'll regret it."

"Old Magic?"

"Mum taught me," said Arthur hastily. "She told me, anyway." He rarely did magic. Sometimes at work (he was a dock worker like his father) he'd used it to skive off a few of the more boring jobs, but only if he thought he wouldn't get caught. Dan didn't know, but he'd helped him out too – the night when he was behind with the riveting suffering as he had been with the effects of inebriation and he had controlled a second welder to seal those which were on the opposite side of his panel. Nevertheless Arthur had never much bothered with magic: he'd never much bothered with anything, if truth be told.

"Auld. It's untrained magic, it's dangerous. Conjurists use it." He could tell his friend was full of questions but now wasn't the time to answer them. "We've got to get out of here."

Another scream. This time, it seemed to be coming from the people who had bet on Castleford to win. Auld Magic. A forbidden curse. Arthur grabbed his friend's shoulder. Then another, and a clatter of what sounded

"Down there. Ferensway!" A forbidden curse. Mum had told him about them: three that those with magic must never speak.

"Over there!" The voice was that of the first man, who had taunted the Castleford fans about their loss and had protested his magical intervention. Arthur held his breath. Perhaps they'd go away. Silence screamed around them before exploding as a voice from the ground spoke.

"Emergency Services, which service do you require?" Damn!

Arthur knew what he had to do. All this just from nudging the ball around at a rugby match! Auld Magic.

"Go! Now!" He turned to the footsteps which were clattering across the bridge towards them. He was no wizard; he's picked up a couple of things, it was true. But what other choice did they have?

Arthur knew that these people were coming after them because they'd heard what they'd done. Ahead, in the distance, the wail of police sirens. The footsteps stopped on the bridge.

He couldn't do it, not least because Arthur wasn't the bravest man in the world, but because he knew it would be long drawn-out suicide. All this, for a game? He tore after his friend in the darkness.


	8. Right or Happy?

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Above her swirled summer cloud, high and icy still and yet wispy promises of a bright hot day were dotted in the cirrus clouds. A glorious day for those who would take notice and Cecilia Frobisher was in such a mind to enjoy her surroundings for a brief moment.

How was it that so many of the momentous days in her life had occurred on bright, warm, sunny days? She had arrived on the doorstep of 12, Grimmauld Place in the middle of the summer and her subsequent re-arrival in this new reality had been similar. She and Remus had assessed the charred ground where 26 Dalton Drive in Edgeford had once been under the hot summer sun of an August midday and had agreed that from the levelled remains of the old house a new one would be suitable for all three of them.

And now, today, was another one. She looked down, far down, from the high natural scaffold of the sea-mountain island and wondered whether the weather would hold throughout her journey and continue to enhance her already optimistic, renewed Cecilia.

Nearly twelve years had passed since she had been pulled up from behind the veil by Lucius Malfoy, almost twelve years since she had assaulted him, opened her heart to Caelius Lupin who she had mistaken for her Remus, been introduced to Aberforth Dumbledore, met the Reciprocators, adopted Freya and fallen in love with Remus in this world. Twelve years since she had used the idea of a literary purge of her soul suggested to her by Aberforth to put the, well, not the past, but the _other place_, behind her.

This world was a new start. It was, Cecilia had found, was familiar but with almost deliberate mistakes. She had met several wizards and witches through the Reciprocators but had had to correct her thinking on many occasions where her assumptions had got her into mildly difficult situations. History wasn't quite the same here, not in many significant ways, but different enough for Cecilia to notice the presence or, more embarrassingly, the absence of people, both magical and non-magical.

She had taken up Aberforth's offer of teaching science at Hedgewards and, with Severus Snape, had worked on the scientific aspects of the Universal Link, something well-known by wizards here and which was slowly infiltrating its way into non-wizard social and academic cultures. It had taken time but now it was common for newspapers and magazines to run articles where the explanation for such a link, between energy and light and magic, was mentioned briefly and assumed, like DNA fingerprinting, to be self-explanatory.

So Cecilia, even when she had been her lowest, had counted her blessings. She was living in the equivalent of her old house, the address being the same but the structure and layout, being decided by them both, very different to the one she had shared with Tim Frobisher. That was a small difference but other, fundamental differences had contributed to more than a few difficulties for Cecilia. Remus, for example.

Here, in this place, Remus John Lupin, by lucky chance evaded the werewolf bite for Fenrir Greyback's unfortunate victim had been his unfortunate brother Caelius, who had received it however, for the same reason as had happened to Remus in the other world. In the pay of dark wizards Greyback was searching for Mysterious Mythology and had become frenetic when Caelius had attempted to prevent it being taken.

As such, Remus's personality here was far more extroverted than Cecilia had known. Erudite, clever, confident and forthright were adjectives more associated with Remus Lupin now, not the slightly introverted diffidence which had been Remus Lupin before, recipient of the werewolf's bite. But more than that. On nights when she would lie awake, thinking about the other place she had struggled to remember _her_ Remus, the version of the man whom she had loved first. There were times when Cecilia had almost forgotten the Remus she had once known and now, like a misty shadow, that old image was hard to hold onto in her mind.

Remus had been happy to adopt Freya, not officially at least, but to them both she was as good as their own. Here Freya had been rescued the night that Cecilia had been taken from the Department of Mysteries in the Combined Government to 12, Grimmauld Place by Sirius Black after a Reciprocator call-out where both her ministry-employed non-wizard parents Libby and Derek had endured fatal accidents.

Freya had taken to Cecilia and Remus, regularly questioning the cause and circumstances of parents' death something, about which Cecilia knew very little, but she seemed contented, in general, to be living with them. Her black kitten, Tippex, was her best friend and he was often seen following her to her primary school in Edgeford, or to the treehouse in the Lupins' garden where she often hid away with her Enid Blyton books. It had helped, Cecilia thought, that Septimus was born soon afterwards. Freya had bonded with their son immediately and could be no more of a devoted sibling had she been related to them all genetically. A rosy, comfortable, contented life.

And then it happened. Not all at once but, as these things often do, by small, imperceptible increments which, on their own, look like nothing more than short-term improvements. A call to increase more wizard-nonwizard integration, more shared facilities, common school teachings. While Freya was still at primary school wizards and non-wizards were taught about magical history and shown what it was like to be a wizard and similarly the alternative history for non-wizards.

It had been that, Cecilia had thought, looking back over recent history when she had been at her lowest, that which been the start for Freya. She was a non-wizard like her parents but, like her parents, had a fascination for all things magical. They had volunteered before Cecilia's coming to this world as part of a group of people organised by the ministry to work in non-wizard communities to promote magic. They aimed to make people feel it was something to embrace rather than fear.

N.W.R.s they were called, or Newers. Non-Wizard Reciprocators. And, on the face of it, there was nothing whatsoever wrong with this, in fact, with the mood of the country one of open-ness and tolerance, it was seen as a really good thing to do. Though few in number the Newers, buoyed by personal enthusiasm, really did help open up sections of non-wizard society to the fact that wizards were just like them, really.

The descending path on which Cecilia was treading wove between rugged vertical cliffs. The summer, often absent even in August in this part of the world, brought with it sharp, cold bites of air despite the early morning sunshine and Cecilia pulled her jacket closer as she concentrated carefully on her step. She had brought nothing with her to this place except for a few personal belongings and her picture of Septimus. 

Septimus. Here, he was the single most important thing in her life. When little Tim was born, the uneasy feeling of fitting into a new world was crushed for she ha a beautiful baby boy on her hands. His dark hair gave way to bright blonde locks as his first year passed, he had Cecilia's oval-shaped face and his pale eyes sparkled like gemstones, alive with interest in the world.

She took time away from Hedgewards, returning when Septimus was four and Remus took a part-time job with the ministry so as to take care of him. Again, nothing wrong with this save the whisper of agony on her stomach when she was parted from him. The thought was always worse than the actual going: Septimus knew that his mum worked at Hedgewards and where she was but deep down Cecilia longed to be with him.

The longing of missing her son growing up day by day stung as she looked down at the grass-strewn steps, thin and patchy hiding treacherous mud. One false step and Cecilia would be a goner. Below her in the harbour a lone ship swayed, its sails being let out in readiness for impending departure. Cecilia hastened her step, chancing her luck. She must be on it before the early dawn mist was driven from around the island.

As well as his father and his sister Septimus was close to his uncle too. Uncle Kay, Caelius, was an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries, a relatively prestigious role considering his lycanthropy. It had been Remus, his younger-by-four-years brother who had gone to Aberforth Dumbledore at Hedgewards and asked for his brother to be accepted. Remus had been just twelve when he had gone to the school's headmaster and he had taken with him Severus Snape whom he had approached beforehand and who had agreed with confidence to manufacture a cure.

For that was what else was different here. All the scientific developments over the last three hundred years had occurred in both wizard and non-wizard sections of society and had hastened the discovery, refinement and application of magical spells and potions. What was well-known in wizard lore, such as the repulsion of werewolves using silver, was borne out by scientific explanation and using science therefore, potions could be refined and improved.

It was for such unparalleled genius that Severus Snape in this world stood tall. He had spent his school years in potions development and had continued with this area of research when he became professor of the subject at just eighteen. In this world magical institutions, as non-magical ones, were expected to undertake research and this was an obvious choice for Severus Snape. His fame was known the world over but to him he never saw it as anything other than being him.

Perhaps he was destined to form a close relationship with Tabitha Penwright, who attended Hedgewards on paper but spent most of her teenage years in the Department of Mysteries, most specifically behind the Veil, a place she felt more at home in than her own, not least because she was the only person in this new world who could traverse it and the second only to come back.

Cecilia Frobisher, now Lupin, could surely be forgiven for drawing comparisons and contrasts between peope she knew in the world prior to her changing the past – perhaps it was even understandable. A psychiatrist might even have called it necessary. But she had not banked on her adopted daughter's unruly behaviour, nor the teenage Freya's emotions. It had been the results of her naïve foolishness that, following Aberforth's death, had caused Cecilia to think dreadful things of her only trusted confidante, one of which being: if only he hadn't positively encouraged her to write "The Story that Never Was." For she surely would have not poured her heart into further writings, personal journal entries which had helped her live comfortably and which the girl, in her anger at Cecilia, which she had used against her.

It had been her research journals which Freya had read out before the Reciprocators. More than just a written record of facts and conclusions they had become, three or four years before, a vessel, a shoulder. Cecilia had taken out her ire about all of them…

A cool breeze whipped around the gneiss out-juttings and she looked towards it, blinking at its iciness before taking a few more steps down towards the water edge. It wouldn't be long before the Northern school dissolved from view and into invisibility as she stepped aboard the readied ship.

When Freya, who had been masquerading as a student at Hedgewards, was finally discovered, Cecilia had chided her and she had taken it personally. Perhaps she had not been there for the girl, who had spent a lot of time at 12 Grimmauld Place with Remus, as had Septimus. Freya had bonded firmly with Tonks too and looked upon her as an older sister. As such, Cecilia had concluded, she had not taken kindly to the reprimand from her absent, adopted mother.

The feeling that Cecilia had spent too long away seemed to be one silently agreed and concluded by the Reciprocators that particular summer. Aberforth had died just as the term at Hedgewards had ended and everything seemed flat and dull and lifeless. Freya must have been planning her revenge for several days, if not weeks, and had chosen Aberforth's funeral-wake to read out her Cecilia's journals in their crude, uninhibited, horrifying frankness.

It had taken Remus to lead Freya away, not before the girl had narrated a good section of it, looking at each victim with a raised eyebrow and malicious smile and Cecilia had not only wished she could have fallen through the floor but though the wall into either 10 or 14 Grimmauld Place.

Her hypothesis on commonality, Reciprocator-concealed and divisive, had been bad enough. She had been planning to share it of course, but tactfully and discreetly, not disordered, like her notes had been. But she had argued with Henrietta when the witch had torn into her for her caustic views causing Cecilia, to reply with equal acerbicity about her treatment, her demotion and dismissal from Hedgewards, her exclusion from them socially and increasing isolation by their faction-like manner.

If she was honest, Cecilia would have admitted that something had been going wrong six months before Aberforth's death. She had been increasingly dreaming about the old world and had been dreading the break that Christmas which would have taken her back to Dalton Drive, her life with Remus, who she sensed had been becoming more distant and to the increasingly turbulent Freya.

Cecilia knew that, deep down, her husband did resent being the one at home with the children and, after having gone to seek counsel from Snape had voiced aloud her devotion to Septimus and this had persuaded her to return. That and her pathetic attempt at seduction. All credit she had given to Snape for rebutting her so kindly, for not mentioning it again and for continuing with their professional life as if nothing had happened.

The sands below were grey-green with rocks interspersed with the sediment. Another thirty or so feet and she would be down there, with the sharp igneous outcrops under her feet. She replayed her thoughts both of her darkest day at Grimmauld Place and her memories of writing her pretentious account blending into vision.

She had spoken of Harry, and Hermione and Ron too, wondering if the match between the former two was advisable when Ron and Hermione had been so well suited. How different Harry was, but how grateful she was that Septimus was such good friends with Sam, who reminded her more of how the Harry she knew…

…how the wizards and witches who had been Death Eaters were quirky individuals but whose characters were flawed in such a way that they could be tempted into bigotry just as easily...

…how she and Remus had been arguing more and more as the years had gone on, and whether they would be any different, or better, had he been the victim of Greyback rather than Caelius, a typical politician who did nothing to dispel the loathsomeness which surrounds those in power…

…how Sirius was a weak, vain snob of a man who did little for the Reciprocators but took all the credit…

…how Snape in old world could have been like Snape in this but for the the things he had gone through, how James was cute, how Lily was a bit of a bossy madam and Henrietta was devious, manipulative player of people…

…how, when she felt so awful, after a week of relentless lessons, research tasks and meetings, if only she could go back to the other place, just to see them, to see her Remus…

…and if that she could get the potion made here and tested by Harry here, then the discrepancy in the old world could be accounted for and Harry would defeat Voldemort…

…how her guilt was sometimes all-consuming: she had married for love and had promised to respect, honour and cherish Remus John Lupin and bring up Freya as best as she could…

…how her hopes for Septimus were that he had a happy life, and that she had done little to help her son so far…

…how, if only, she had gone with her instinct when she had first arrived and never set foot in Hedgewards, had kept Septimus close, been a proper mother to him and Freya and had had the confidence to stand up to Caelius, to Severus and, probably, to Aberforth…

…how that life might have been so much better had she not assumed, in her haste, that the people here were as the old world, personalities and circumstances aside…

She was as much to blame for everything she had thrown around in her journals as they were, for her own short-sightedness and fraught naivety. But the damage had been done: Remus had been embarrassed, that she knew and, after her verbal altercation with Henrietta Edwards she had left by the front door.

Caelius had gone after her, had told her she was no longer needed at Hedgewards and must go to Durmstrang and, after insisting on confirmation of her dispensability from Severus which he had given to her right there outside Number 12, Caelius had then added that her job was to spy or would she would betaken in by ministry and imprisoned.

Her last thoughts as they had departed London there and then by broom were of Septimus. He was her rock, for who Cecilia lived. She had been glad he hadn't been at Aberforth's wake and, after she had reluctantly taken up her pre-arranged research work, a cover for spying on Durmstrang's staff's research, had also been glad that Caelius offered her a purpose.

Cecilia hated that about Caelius – his skill at delivering bad news as if it were anything but was refined to a point of giftedness and she knew that Uncle Kay adored Septimus. She hadn't been surprised when Septimus had written to tell her that he and Remus had moved into the Lupin cottage with Caelius, how he had begun to attend a primary school in Borrowdale which was "small, but okay", which his mother would have approved of because it was "full of books" and how Freya had gone to live with Tonks and Nick.

Letters had kept her going and she had written happily about her day-to-day life at Durmstrang, the tone of which becoming vaguer and more off-hand as her mood had grown darker and more morose. Severus Snape had been her other epistle-exchanger but, as the months had worn on his letters had become increasingly more infrequent. And then, she had done what she had later considered to be the one single act which had sealed her isolation. She had asked Snape to make Harry's potion.

Cecilia's left foot struck a hard obstacle and she realised she had got to the bottom. The here-and-now burst into her consciousness as she looked around her at the wide open expanse of ocean, so far north that it was now not the North Sea but the Atlantic. The magical ship which was the only way to leave Durmstrang Institute bobbed ominously bfore her.

It was perhaps inevitable that Snape wouldn't reply. Were the roles have been reversed it is very likely that Cecilia would have considered herself deluded and crazy. It had been Ragnhild Andersson, with whom she worked on a daily basis, who had met her as Cecilia had made her way towards the ground floor exit and the murderous sheer cliffs which were no more than ten steps from the thick, oak door.

It had been another turning point and, as she had gone straight back to her room, swallowed her pride and reasoned that she so little left to lose that her pride thrown back in her face by Sirius Black would be just a drop in the ocean, Ragnhild's words asking her whether a person should care more about being right or being happy. She wanted to be happy.

And now she would be. That night, only a few days ago, had brought a frank conversation with Sirius, a tearful and gut-wrenching emotional reunion with Remus and a promise to herself that she would never, ever research anything again, that she would be home with her family and do what she wanted, no matter what the ministry cared.

The flames licking around her journals, ending the curse of her vitriolic opinions, outrageous conjectures and suppositions about commonality and anything she had uncovered in her biennial tour of duty at the Scandinavian wizard school, cleansed her. She had put the past behind her, _both _pasts, and closed her mind to the future, refusing to make any assumptions about what may come to pass in her life.

Cecilia moved onto the small, wooden, saline-bleached wharf she looked at the sea, to the West, where her family was. Durmstrang above was behind her too. If she looked up now Cecilia would, as she crossed the edgestones, indefinable amongst the rubble on the shore, see the school become invisible and hidden.

Once, she had clung onto it, hoping for her research to be her salvation and blending in with the single-minded, neurotic staff as if she were a witch herself. But she had dared herself to want happiness again, to want her family Remus and her beloved son Septimus. She had reconnected with her husband and they had vowed to make it work. She was renewed. She was going home.

It was only when the crewless ship was a few miles out into open water that Cecilia gave in to her he urge to look back. Durmstrang, the square, fortress-like building which nestled amongst the crags of Drangen was no more. The island was now just another mountain, another pinnacle to scale by peakbaggers the world over.


	9. Hopes and Dreams

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Before him just under a score of Reciprocators looked back. His lips and throat, parched from long-forgotten thirst grated as he swallowed, contemplating the difficult course he must navigate that evening. What should have been at the top of his list, namely the Hedgewards inclusion policy and the deaths of the non-wizards in Hull by possible Conjurists, were tucked away in his mind as he considered both his brother and his nephew.

"How is Septimus?" The business of the moment, namely the rotas and the increasing number of security shifts to support the Ministry being chaired by James Potter and debated by the members, continued in the background as Lily smiled at him and whispered near his ear.

"He seems to be coping, what with the news of his mother," replied Caelius quietly. "I am concerned about him, so quiet that he is. I do think going to Hedgewards will help him." He tried not to catch Lily's eye. A politician he might be but he was no substitute for a father, or a mother come to that. He knew what Lily thought of how he was caring for Septimus, why Sam would now be in their cottage keeping the lad company and why he would be fed the moment he floo'd into Number 12's living room as if he hadn't seen food for a month.

Caelius knew too that he was not as comforting a presence as Aberforth; he hadn't the manner, or the connections to Hedgewards. By rights Severus Snape should be standing here with him – Aberforth Dumbledore had chosen two successors, in reality even if it was he, Caelius, who held the secrets of the Reciprocators. Perhaps it would have been better, Caelius mused, if Aberforth had named Snape as his successor – if he had then, at least, Caelius's life would be less chaotic. He could then care for Septimus how he wanted to, rather than how he had to.

But Aberforth chose him to carry on and all of them, himself included, had to get on with it. At least he hadn't had to be headmaster too; Severus had that honour and, when it came to professional matters they worked seamlessly together.

"…an update from the hospital. Has anyone been to see Remus and Sirius recently?" At the mention of his brother's name, Caelius jerked his head into the present moment. He realised too that the Reciprocators were looking at him: the Potters; Molly and Arthur Weasleys; Bill, Charlie and the twins; Tonks; Alastor Moody, Dilys Crudglington; Arabella Figg; Minerva McGonagall, Benjamin Wergs and Bertie Griffin, Bathsheba Braddle…

"I was there this morning," managed Caelius, collecting his thoughts quickly and shooing the horrific image of Remus's still-unhealed neck and throat, ashen skin and lifeless body out of his mind. "There's been little improvement in my brother's improvemrnt – " he inhaled and looked around the group again: so many absent too, " – but Sirius…he is luckier."

"Is he conscious, then?" Tonks's voice trilled out in hope.

"Sirius is still unconscious," Caelius replied carefully, trying not to make eye contact with anyone for too long, "but he is luckier than Remus." Did they really need clarification when it was him saying it.

"We can rely on Severus to work on Remus's condition, though." James's comment fell short of asking the question and his statement was clipped.

"He has the reports, he had taken some measurements. St. Mungo's send him daily accounts of his progress." It didn't really answer James's unvoiced question, but that was the reality. "Sirius needs to regain consciousness before he can receive treatment."

"Well," growled Moody, "he is nothing if single-minded."

"Indeed," replied Caelius, hoping no-one else had any questions on this emotive topic. "We know he has been working on the cure for vampirism for several years and it has proven difficult. We have the reports from the Ministry regarding the attacks in Hull," he pressed on despite sensing that people wanted to ask and talk about their colleagues and friends. The meeting had to be quick on his part in any case even though he was comforted by talking about his brother and would have gladly have talked longer about Remus.

"It would appear that two non-wizards were attacked without any evidence of provocation by known Conjurists."

"They were winding them up," opposed James evenly. "How often does that happen? Not many people can resist retaliation." There was a pause. James Potter in his youth had been the cause of more fights with non-wizards than all of the rest of the reciprocators present there that evening put together.

"All right, all right," James protested a little sheepishly, "I've had my moments." His tried not to look at Lily, over whose fair features the majority of fights had been for he knew that his wife's eyes would be boring into the side of his head. "All I'm saying is that wizards will fight back, and use magic at that. Conjurists…well: from what you've said, Caelius, these particular Conjurists were looking for a fight."

"Indeed," confirmed Caelius nodding at James's insightful surmising. "Assault by means of magic is clear in law, as it has been for more than a decade. These wizards are the subject of an investigation by Mr. Malfoy's department and will be arrested." Around Caelius nods of agreement came fervently,

"Yet what is not so easily explainable is that the Cruciatus Curse and Avada Kedavra were used on a non-wizard woman walking back from the shops along the Hessle Road, just outside Hull City Centre in broad daylight the same day. You can hardly call that provocation."

"It is conjurists in particular, then?" Minerva McGonagall's words were no question despite its intonation.

"We've arrested several; many of them said they were provoked," replied Caelius carefully, addressing them all. "However several serious offenders have admitted to instigating several of them in the name of the…purity of magic."

"Purity of magic?" Caelius's words were loudly mocked in outrage and disbelief by nearly all of the members before descending into localised chatter.

"That is what many believe," continued Caelius, his voice steady, over the diminuendo of infuriation. "Or are being goaded into believing at any rate. Much of this is influence comes from outside the country – "

"Bloody instant floo messaging!" responded Benjamin, shaking his head.

"It's the pensieves that are the problem!" replied Bathsheba.

"The Interflame," added Arabella Figg, shaking her head. "I don't understand none of it. By Merlin, I do not." This time, instead of talking over the chatter Caelius allowed it to die away naturally.

"It is their growing communication using pensieves which is the trouble," he continued, beginning to clench his fingers into a ball behind his back. "While we can, theoretically trace the origin of any one message the fact still remains that the original sender can send the message to scores, hundreds,_ thousands_ of pensieves within seconds and before we can get to the sender's location the message has been transmitted again and again to users. The message can be stored, retrieved, amended." He looked at the expectant faces around him; clearly the gravity of the situation was lost on many of them. "The fact is the capacity of the Otherworld where these stored memories pass is infinite. It can cope with the pensieves sending memory messages to other pensieves – "

"Tabitha again," smiled Lily.

" – indeed, indeed," nodded Caelius impatiently. "But it's the mere transmission of such divisive, bigoted messages _so _quickly, _so _widely that is of great concern to us." At last, several nods around the room, looks of mutual concern and low whispers. "We cannot hold back on technology, we cannot uninvent it. However, the Conjurists' numbers are growing and their ideas are becoming more widespread, more dangerous. The Ministry has to act…keeping trouble and danger away from ordinary people and try to prevent the outbreak of serious uprising to continue as normal.

"Continue as normal?" exclaimed James, aghast. "With Remus and Sirius injured?" Around him, James's sentiment was echoed with nodding heads and "yeahs" and "right" echoing around Grimmauld Place's living room.

"I believe the combined government are going to become tougher. Factions of non-wizard ministers are already talking about martial law and I know that, unless our response is swift and efficacious the situation could well become grave, dire – "

"It's already grave and dire!" James shook his head and looked down, folding his arms. Lily reached down to hold his hand, her lips pursed so as to keep her silence."

" – and we could have civil war on our hands," finished Caelius, trying not to be defensive but failing dismally. " Look, Joseph Black successfully put down similar circumstances by establishing the Reciprocator movement as we all know. We now must – "

"What do you suggest we do?" Lily interrupted him and for a moment, Caelius stared at her, wondering whether her question was genuine. He swallowed and his dry throat grated. For what _were _they to do? Had he been Aberforth he knew that he would have known exactly what to do. Work day and night visiting Conjurists and telling them that magic they recognised and strongly identified with had not been sidelined? Continue blithely on with the integration programme at Hedgewards to further infuriate certain ways of thinking?

"We need to visit the covens, talk reasonably," he said firmly. " Allow witches and wizards there to freely express their opinions no matter how shocking. Then we can address – "

"But you speak of action!" pleaded James. "You say that the government already proposes force and you want us to be reasonable?"

"This is our action," replied Caelius evenly, his brain keeping his politician-cool mind on the track and ignore the little voice of concern nudging him about his brother's plight and the other part which felt like voicing aloud his personal outrage that James had as good as ignored the fact that it was his brother who was so severely ill.

"What good would it to be heavy-handed? What good might? Some will listen to reason. Many have been swept along by the newness of the thing and probably don't really want to be there at all. I was originally going to propose that our movement become more public, speak to the Prophet and the non-wizard newspaper articles, magazines and the like, but I am aware that, since these attacks it may prove more fruitful to employ a subtle, more sustained approach." He stopped and allowed silence to descend like a delicate drape around the room giving his audience a chance for the explanation to sink in.

"We should vote on it," said James eventually, standing up wearily as he broke the silence. "Before that, we need to hear all the information to make an informed choice." There were murmurings in agreement and Caelius nodded slowly. It wasn't unexpected however he had not banked on the strength of opinion that James had voiced. He knew the wizard had spent a good six hours in St. Mungo's the evening before and Caelius made a mental note to himself to take into account James Potter's forceful feeling.

"I propose a tactic of strength, of force against the Conjurists." James's succinct summary on his planned objective for the Reciprocators in the near future was complemented by a look in passing before Caelius's eyes which silently reminded the witches and wizards, on this bright, sunny, pleasant evening that he was as closely involved as anyone with their seriously injured colleagues. "We should support the government in whatever policy it decides," continued James firmly, "and if it is to involve fighting then so be it."

And we should turn ourselves into the military wing of the government thought Caelius dully, carrying out their orders. Realising all eyes were on him he replied: "we have always remained independent of political policy however I believe, should you vote for James's proposal, our strategy of might should reflect this independence."

Around them, murmurs and whispers from the Reciprocators as they discussed the two contrasting approaches. Many, such as the Weasley clan and Bathsheba, Benjamin and Tonks, clustered together, debating in low tones. Arabella Figg took to pacing around Number 12's living room, an act which might be considered eccentric but, knowing Arabella as they all did, was in keeping with her character.

Alastor Moody had taken a few steps into the middle of the circle of chairs, nodding around him and acting as an unofficial overseer of the vote, his arms folded and his bulldog-like features crumpled into a suitable grimace. Caelius watched them all, noting in particular that James had taken a defensive pose, standing as he was with one hand on his hip and the other over the room's large fireplace, Lily talking to him in a hushed voice and placing a comforting hand on his back which every now and then James was shrugging off.

At length the Reciprocators returned to their places on their chairs in the circle and, once all had drifted back, Moody glanced between James an Caelius momentarily before beginning to speak.

"You heard the gentlemen," he growled. "James proposes action to overcome these Conjurists by force. Caelius – " he nodded towards the Reciprocators' leader and thrust out an arm, "feels that we should pursue a more measured approach and calls for our continued autonomy. Now you must vote." Moody surveyed the room, looking at each witch or wizard momentarily in turn. "James?" Hands raised around the circle. Seven, including Arthur and Molly Weasley, Lily, Tonks and Benjamin Wergs." Caelius watched as James Potter's eyes widened; clearly he was waiting for Moody himself to vote for his proposal.

"Seven votes. Caelius?" This time, the votes came slower. Arabella Figg was the first to raise her hand, followed shortly by Bathsheba Braddle. Several others followed suit including, lastly, Alastor Moody himself.

"Ten votes. And, due to absence, five abstentions: Snape, McGonagall, Black, Lupin and Lupin. Caelius," Moody concluded, flinging his arm in Caelius's direction. Then the wizard grunted sharply before stepping firmly back to his place.

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In his bedroom, Septimus read through Sam Potter's letter. He was attempting to prepare himself to go to Hedgewards and was supposed to be sorting out his clothing so he knew what Uncle Kay needed to buy for him before he left. It had been his suggestion. Septimus knew Caelius loved him very much but he also knew his uncle was extremely busy and often overlooked those things that he knew that he needed.

Pangs of sadness had overcome him that morning as he looked around at his sparse possessions. Very few of his real things had come with him when Uncle Kay had brought him from Edgeford to live with him and Remus in his cottage two years before and when he had suggested to his uncle that they could simply go back to Dalton Drive to collect them Caelius had insisted he would now be very much outgrown of many of the items. It was true, of course. But it hadn't it easier to bear the sadness of his fading hope that he could visit his old house, his _real_ house, and see it one last time.

Septimus missed his mum and now that he had decided to actually go to Hedgewards he wished she could be there, with him, choosing things together, packing, discussing things, like they used to. He remembered the times he would sit on his mother's lap listening to stories of science, or rather, of scientists and how they had invented things by hard work and perseverance but also by entire good fortune or, on occasions, sheer stupidity.

So he had written to Sam, asking what things he should take to Hedgewards and the younger Potter brother had written back with a list of books and equipment, quills and parchment, cauldron, robes and so on. He had also included a note about non-wizard items that might be needed which, of course, his uncle and Sam's father were in the process of deciding. It had occurred to Septimus that it might be prudent to include some obvious non-wizard things such as biros and a geometry set but he realised that if he packed up his computer or his favourite books there probably wouldn't be much room for his clothes.

He looked around his room, at the sparkly halo which was the charm that Caelius had put around the house, the one which transported him directly to him if it was crossed. Septimus smiled. Despite his uncle's obvious lack of parenting skills he knew that Caelius cared about him. Uncle Kay had left some books out for him to read, several of which Sam had mentioned in his letter and three of which Septimus knew were written by the headmaster of Hedgewards.

He had met Severus Snape wizard once before, nearly three years ago. It had been the New Year and his mind was thrilled and dazzled with swashbuckling adventure, mystery and heroism. The entre first week of the Christmas holidays he had spent with his nose in one of his Christmas presents and had now read the entire compendium of "Showell Styles' Sea Stories" that his parents had given him. In search of further stories Septimus remembered thinking that the shelves of magical books in Sirius's library may house further adventures, perhaps even ones of the magical persuasion.

So, after his parents had settled down that New Years' Eve afternoon and in the middle of their gossiping with several other Reciprocators, the Potters, his uncle Caelius and Mr. Moody, Septimus had looked up the stairs that led to the first floor. Before long, his legs had followed his eyes and he had found himself in a room lined from floor to ceiling with books.

He had looked along the titles, gleaming gold in the lamplight. Some volumes puffed out coloured smoke while others howled and groaned. Some begged to be removed from shelves with piteous voices. And then Septimus had come across one with Harry Potter in the title. He knew the name, of course. The Potters' elder son, Septimus knew, was called Harry and he had recently celebrated at Grimmauld Place his promotion as Head Auror into the Department of Wizard Security.

Septimus had been about to take the book with him for he had reached out a hand, his fingers closed around the spine with the volume half-off the shelf but then stopped, mid-pull. He didn't so much hear a sound behind him but instead the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped and he had shivered and turned slowly. Before him, motionless, a huge dark figure. The book fell to the floor, perched as it had been between the shelf and Septimus's hand but before he had had a chance to say something, explain, _anything_, the wizard had taken a step towards him, looming high.

"Did your parents never teach you to – never – take – things – that don't belong to you?" As he addressed Septimus the wizard, who Septimus knew to be Severus Snape from a picture over the main fireplace downstairs, took three more purposeful steps in his direction. He stood over the young Lupin. "But you are curious of course. All children are." Septimus remembered half-closing his eyes, waiting for the reprimand that was surely to follow and this comment had taken him by surprise. He had looked at Snape, uncertain as to what would happen next.

"What were you doing here?" Snape's original ice-searing tone had returned but Septimus had been caught aback by the momentary glimpse of understanding or, perhaps, a negotiable escape route.

"I was being curious, sir," Septimus replied, adding the sir as a form of insurance. Not many people remained hardened when deference was in the offing. "I was wondering if there were any adventure books about wizards? I've finished the one mum and dad bought me for Christmas, you see." A pause had lingered between them as Snape stood over him. His expression had turned to a glower and Septimus had remembered thinking that he would never be naughty for his mum and dad again if only this terrifying wizards would let him go.

"Indeed there are," Snape had replied, a rough growl to his voice and, looking up momentarily, he had scanned the shelves. "However you should wait a few years longer before you can really appreciate them. When you are eleven, perhaps."

Eleven, Septimius had thought as Snape had escorted him back downstairs and into the living room of Grimmauld Place. His mother had pulled him over to one of the sofas when she realised he and Snape were standing at the bottom of the stairs and Mrs Potter had encouraged Sam to talk to the eight-year-old Septimus. Sam was fourteen. Septimus had remembered thinking all the time Sam had shown him his chocolate frog cards, the new set which included famous non-wizard magicians. Sam was old enough to have the book that Snape had talked about. It wasn't fair!

But then, he had told Sam about the books anyway, after they had played a game of Bottom Trumps. Often Septimus had wondered whether the older boy had ever gone up to the library at 12, Grimmauld Place and read the adventure books but he had never thought to have asked Sam. But then, mentioning much about his mother's book and Harry Potter together in the same sentence was _quite out of favour_, especially at the moment, to say the least.

And now here he was, eleven years old now, with the view of Borrowdale graphite mine in the fore-distance, the sides of which Septimus had often scrambled, playing, exploring, digging…

…rescuing…

Septimus sat down on his bed and looked at the grey-green hill which had been one of the areas he had explored over the last couple of years. Beyond the long since abandoned mine lay his school which he had reluctantly agreed to attend since he had begun to live with his father and Uncle Kay in their family cottage.

He couldn't remember how Julian had got himself into trouble last summer but, after an hour of frantic, futile scrambling up the sheer sides of the inner caldera Septimus had begun to panic, wondering how he would ever be able to get out. Shouting for help had done nothing and he knew that neither his uncle or his father would be at home. He didn't want to leave his best mate down there on his own and, by the look on Julian's little round face, neither did his friend.

How he had got down there was more a matter of luck, scratches and bruises and, with a good deal of effort and a half-attempt at _leviocorpus_, which had not worked at the quarry edge, had got Julian back up to the top of the quarry. He had then realised that both he and Julian had realised that Septimus getting down there had merely allowed them to switch places. With supreme effort using his limited, untrained, magical skill Septimus had failed completely to help himself and Julian had raced back home to get a rope and leave a message.

It had been Caelius who had got him out in the end, disapparating down with his broomstick and flying both of them back off, quietly and calmly as Julian's mum and dad had taken it in turns to shout at him about how stupid they had both been. It was his Uncle Kay's entirely opposite approach which had struck home with Septimus and he had, when they had got back to the cottage, told his uncle how sorry he was for being silly and also telling him that he wanted to improve his magic.

It was true. When he was stuck down there, wondering how in the world he could get out, Septimus had felt a yearning, deep and strong burning in his heart, to learn more magic. So many people around him were good wizards, _great _wizards. And they could use their skills to help people. He and Julian wouldn't have been in half so much trouble if he had been better at magic.

And then it struck him, as he thought of their escapade that sunny, August day. Of course! Hedgewards! That was what Severus Snape had meant! When he was eleven he could go to Hedgewards and learn about magic! They would be exciting books to read. Hedgewards would be exciting, full stop, Septimus reasoned. He only had to listen to Sam, when he regaled them all with stories, or half-stories, of things he had done. Now, non-wizards would be going to the school.

He wasn't entirely sure what Caelius meant when he talked about a truly comprehensive system of schooling in Britain but his uncle had explained that it was different to what happened on the Continent where the two magical European schools took only the highest-skilled wizard children.

In the school where his mum worked Septimus knew that his uncle was concerned about the previous headmasters of the school, one of which was Aberforth Dumbledore's brother. Long gone that they were their influence was still strong, Caelius had explained several months ago and Septimus had gone to bed that night thinking about his mother and wishing and wishing, until he had fallen asleep, that his mum was safe. He had been glad that Caelius had got hold of her on the Floo network and they had spoken for a short time and, though the connection was quite bad and he couldn't see her face properly, her warm, comforting tones had made him feel much happier.

Septimus remembered wondering whether he should write to Professor Snape at Hedgewards to ask whether he could arrange for his mum to go back to work at the school, like he knew she had done before. Snape had been headmaster for two years and his parents had discussed with Septimus which High School he would like to attend.

This had caused both his mum and his dad to be annoyed with one another; he could sense the atmosphere when his dad had proclaimed that the only place for him was Hedgewards. His mother had said he wanted him to mix with children of all backgrounds, not just wizards and had told him it was his choice. How he wished he could tell both of his parents that both of their wishes had come true – he could go to Hedgewards to learn magic and be with non-wizard students too, in less than a month's time.

Technically, it had been his sister, Freya, who been the first non-wizard to attend Hedgewards. That she had heard how exciting it was at the school had probably been the reason Freya had done what she had to go there hersef. She had told him about the teachers and the ghosts, the lessons and the staircases that moved, the pictures that talked, and the friends she had made. Septimus had often wondered why mum had been so angry with her for wanting to be there but he knew that Freya had done something awful to Mrs Lupin both at the school and at the Reciprocator Headquarters. Had she been Septimus's age she would have been able to go properly herself this year.

She wasn't really one for learning, seeming to spend a lot of time being tied up in knots about friends and work and her love life, and so on. When he had managed to get her on the Floo network he had overheard part of a conversation between her and Tonks about her boyfriend, Dudley Black, and her hopes and fears for the future, whether Dudley wanted to make a commitment, whether this was just a fling for him or whether he was more serious.

If it had been Septimus and he wanted to know he presumed he would have just asked Dudley but he knew this wasn't how it worked for Freya and he had wondered whether it was because she was a non-wizard or because she was a girl.

Getting to his feet, Septimus looked at the pile of things he had assembled and sighed heavily as his thoughts again turned his parents. How e wanted to find his mother and help his father too. Perhaps if he began to learn some proper magic at last, there might be something he could do.

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Cecilia opened her eyes. Above her a cloudless blue sky filled her view. It had been several hours since the magical sailing ship had left the tiny Norwegian island of Drangen and the intensity of sunshine had increased hour by hour resulting in almost the perfect summer's day, heating up her skin and she felt the beginning of sunburn begin to prickle her skin. Cecilia did nothing. After months, years of being holed up in a stone castle where fires were considered luxury and daylight so limited she didn't care. More than that she relished some colour to her skin, even if it was pinky-red lobster-coloured.

A slight breeze fluttered the mainsail, causing a tautening of the stays. Though crewless the ship operated in exactly the same manner of an eighteenth century warship and operated as such. It had taken a lot to get the information out of Ragnhild Andersson, the closest person to a friend she had at Durmstrang and, as she had stepped aboard she had done just as she had been told: think about her destination and she would be taken there.

Within the day, early evening she estimated, Cecilia would be able to step off the ship and onto the Yorkshire coast. She was fully aware that the Ministry would know she was back in the country and though she didn't trust Caelius she didn't doubt his assertion that she would be imprisoned immediately once they found her.

She had made to weave her magic web of deceit all day and all night at Durmstrang: yes, a curse was on her, all right. But she didn't care. The joy of being able to breathe free air in her own country, fresh, illicit air, stolen, in a fashion would be a tumultuous joy. How liberated would she feel then, setting her foot down on her own turf? Who were the ministry to dictate?

But then, deep down Cecilia knew that she couldn't be both the whistle-blower for the veil's existence in the Department of Mysteries, a secret that even the Reciprocators, those people she had known for countless years, doubted her word about, and be wandering around like, for want of a better phrase (as she looked down to the large grey guns) a loose cannon. If people she had known for such a long time could abandon her so readily what about a worldful strangers? Especially when the Ministry had so much political influence that she could be branded a dangerous idiot?

She would be able to talk to Remus, though. His gemmy bridle glittered so bright in her mind; the memory that had been their reunion, when he had come to her at Durmstrang when she had been at her lowest, and they had made their peace and promised to be each others' other for the rest oft their lives. Whatever he wanted her to do, for the sake of their marriage she would do. No arguments. No conditions. Cecilia wanted her family back and she was going home for that reason alone.

Perhaps she shouldn't have burned her research notes that night. It had been the gesture that she knew would be the most symbolic to her and Remus's future. Her genetic connections and assertions to commonality between all people may well have informed Snape's medicinal research or Aberforth's investigations into other worlds, as Remus had gently explained. Cecilia had explained that it had been that such research which had robbed her of years of time away from him and especially Septimus and, the sooner it had gone the better for everyone.

She recalled how misguided she had felt, as if that night a sheet had been pulled down which revealed her stupidity, stupidity in trusting the government and not her instincts. Had she a choice Cecilia would have been at home caring for Septimus and Freya. Cecilia was responsible for them both and no-one could doubt her commitment to the welfare and upbringing of both her son and her adopted daughter although she might have been prepared to admit that her mothering approach was slightly on the heavy-handed side, entirely the wrong approach, she now realised, for the volatile Freya.

All that was about to change. Under the blazing sun Cecilia recalled how the flames had licked around the pages of her research diary volumes, her last memory before, post-coitially, both Cecilia and her Lancelot, Remus, dozed in her room at Durmstrang. By the morning, nothing but ash remained and. Phoenix-like, her spirit, her life, had been restored. For too long, it had ruled her. But now, Remus's "tirra-lirra" had brought her to her senses and she had left the loom. Had she a mirror in her room, it may well have crack'd from side to side as she looked down upon her Camelot.

Camelot, or rather, Scarborough, would be within her sight at the end of the day. Would it be a curse, as it had been for the Lady of Shallot? Cecilia had indeed loosed the ship's anchor and now here she was, lying down flat on its deck as the sky above spread out and ships, boats, cruise-liners, vessels of all shapes and sizes, instinctively avoided the magic-shaped zone which was the ship's hull encompassed, whizzing past her at speed. What would her fate be at the water-side?


	10. The Covens

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High up, not far from Herzogenhorn, and entirely hidden from view with a multitude of spells two dozen conjurists from all over the Continent, though most from Britain, were sitting, standing, lolling, leaning and generally in poses which indicated to anyone who might have otherwise been able to see them that they were waiting. It was a Sunday morning, early in the month. No tourists or day trippers yet, walking around and avoiding the invisible non-wizard deterrents which gave them the idea that the other side of the mountain would be the best way of reaching the summit. Only the most dedicated of people, whether wizard or non-wizard, would have been up so early.

What they were waiting for was of much speculation. Those that knew one another had been chatting about a variety of topics: their next directive from their leader; the spectacular scenery and how a few had been there at sunrise and had seen the brick-red glow of the early sun on the horizon, promising hope and potential. Whether they had bought the latest copy of "Auld Magic" and, while it may not be worth it, the act was to send a message to those wizards who were less committed to wizardry and magic.

Several, especially those from Eastern Europe and to whom small talk was as alien as the non-wizards they abhorred, said nothing, sitting silently with their arms folded or pacing around, though not impatiently. For the wizard they were anticipating spoke to them personally, understood them, calmed their woes. He was like a salve to a burn, a soothing, warm bath to aching muscles. He was their embodiment of hope, of what the future might hold should their visions of a world where wizards held their rightful place, over and above non-wizards in a higher social stratum.

They didn't have long to wait. Gellert Grindelwald, in a manner of a zephyr, arrived within the group as innocuously as a cloud or mist. Ghost-like. Silent.

It was his silky, rich voice his disciples first felt. Amongst them he circulated, nodding approvingly and smiling warmly. The wizards and witches fell quickly from their lounging poses and became alert at once. _He_ was there; he who knew them, knew their desires and fears. They longed for him to speak to them, to enrich them with his understanding, give them their renewed purpose.

"My fellows at arms. My friends," Grindelwald began when he had the attention of all. "I am heartened, glad, most happy to see you." His words filtered slowly, like golden syrup, into the minds of his disciples. "You have responded well to the information that I have provided over the Floo Network; some of you were most industrious in your interpretation and have spread the message far and wide."

Grindelwald was smiling and many of the conjurists were beginning to smile too. That they had made their way to the meeting point was a feat in itself. High levels of security had been in place, not to mention the covert covering of tracks many of them had undertaken in their personal and professional lives…fake holidays; family illnesses; emergency shopping trips…

"May I hear from someone who has organised a coven to discuss our messages?" Grindelwald, his long, thick hair blowing in the breeze, swooped around looking at his disciples in anticipation. One wizard, rather short and rotund stepped forward after a couple of vacuous moments.

"Er, I have, sir," he said, clearing his throat as he spoke. Around him those wizards and witches who knew him watched their local leader address those assembled. "Er, that is to say, my coven is 'ere." He arced his arm around, his thick Lancashire accent resonating around them. In the distance

"Walmsley, sir," continued the wizard, his face growing redder and visibly sweating. Had he been a non-wizard and around a hundred years ago he would have fitted the role of an Arkwright mill manager to a tee.

"Mr Walmsley," oozed Grindelwald, a satisfied expression overcoming his features and swishing elegantly over to the clearly uncomfortable man. "Please relax. We merely wish to here of your successes. You bolster us all with your exploits and inspire others. Do continue."

"Well, er, well," said Philip Walmsley, tugging at his over-tight collar, perspiration now beading on his forehead, "first, we…er…" he tailed off and swallowed, clearly very ill at ease. "_First_, we got together some people, wizards and witches me and the wife knew saw our point of view. I interpreted your message on the Floo Network and told the wife about it – " he swung round to his dyed-yellow haired, wife, similar in stature and demeanour to her husband.

"Ooh, yes," she replied shrilly. " 'Brenda,' said 'e," she continued looking around her. " ' Brenda. Look 'ere. The great Grindelwald wishes to share with us his 'umble views.'"

"'umble views," echoed Walmsley fervently. "I told our Bren that, if one so great as yourselves says to believe in Auld Magic, and to set our store by it then by Merlin so should we."

"We waited for your next message," added Brenda, nodding furiously. "And you told us how to mind our ways. Its not that we don't like non-wizards," she protested shrilly, "some of our closest friends are non-wizards."

"But this is about us, all us who are magical," concluded Philip Walmsley, nodding round to those who knew him.

"Aye," replied many of them. "Ar."

"Its about our rights and traditions, just as you said." He looked back at Grindelwald, his image almost the polar opposite of the erudite, charming, talented wizard, Walmsley's stubby fingers interlinking firmly. "If we don't stand up for ourselves, no-one will. And its not like we're askin' for anything neiver. We just want what is ours, and know that its protected." Another chorus of "Aye"s and "Ar"s followed.

"So, you is askin' what we've done for you." Philip Walmsley searched out for the answer to his hidden question on Grindelwald's face and was rewarded by raised eyebrows which was clearly to be interpreted as silent confirmation. "Well, we got together some of the people we know. But we 'aint into goin' out onto the moors – no way, not with my strain to my wand-casting arm. Not that we don't consider findin' somewhere private to be important, as you said," he justified quickly, "its just at our age we appreciate warmth and a hot drink too. We've also been sendin' out pamphlets via owls to our families and friends and followed them up with a phone call, see if they were interested, like."

"Indeed," mused Grindelwald fixedly.

"And we read out the statements of law to our MMP, out member of magical parliament," added Mrs Walmsley, trying to bolster her husband's unnecessary defence.

"We tried to send many messages on the Floo Network, a lot of our messages came back, with lumps of meat attached. We're just not up with the technology. "

"Indeed, indeed," smiled Grindelwald, perhaps to stem the flow of verbal diarrhoea coursing out of the mouths of this enthusiastic yet rather dim pair. "It is heartening to know that my advice is being listened with such dedication. Thank you, Mr and Mrs Walmsley. Thank you for your unending loyalty."

"Aye," replied Walmsley, stepping back into the circle next to his wife. "A pleasure, sir."

"Well, on to the business of our meeting," continued Grindelwald silkily. The wizards and witches dropped silent, waiting expectantly. This was their moment, what they had been waiting for, what they had travelled so many miles to witness. Their ultimate authority in the matters of fundamental wizardry was about to address them personally. "I am sorry that my co-expert, Albus Dumbledore cannot be with us this day but, be assured, his absence is very much to do with our cause. He will shortly be visiting Britain – " at this he looked pointedly over to the Lancashire witches and wizards for whom Walmsley had just spoken, " – so as to lobby the Ministry for Magic over the rights of wizards in statute."

"But that is not what you have come so far to talk to me about," he added, narrowing his eyes and smiling warmly. "You wish to know what you yourselves can do for our cause. We will continue with our communications between one another, between coven and coven – do we have representatives from the Southern counties of England…?" A few nervous hands rose up. "…Scotland…?"

"Aye!"

"…Wales...? …Ireland…?"

"Yeah!" yelled Price and Pugh, a lone pair of wizards from Pontypandy in South Wales who had managed to get to the meeting eventually after making a substantial detour that had taken them to Canada, Fiji, New Zealand, the Maldives and Cairo. Next to them a large group of wizards wearing green Ireland Quidditch tops joined in the verbal salute.

"…France? Holland? Denmark? Germany? Slovenia? Moldova? Lithuania?"

Many hands shot up as Grindelwald mentioned their home countries, accompanied by several "Oui's", "Ja's" and yes's in a variety of European languages. Many of these areas had met with Grindelwald before but this had been the first time that British wizards and witches had been included.

"Then we shall continue with the pensieves. The technology has grown enough for connectivity to be effective over the whole of Europe. You can share your thoughts, reassure one another, speak about your actions, discuss strategies amongst yourselves. You will find yourselves most empowered when you can hold your futures in your own hands." He nodded round again. Several of the wizards from various covens nodded towards one another, expressing recognition and confirming their intention of doing just what Grindelwald had suggested.

"Yes, Mr. Walmsley?" Grindelwald had noticed the lumbering, fat wizard who had just expressed his and his coven's allegiance to him.

"Er, Mr. Grindelwald, sir," he asked uneasily, "about the pensieves…er, I was just wondering, like…" Walmsley put down his hand, seeking reassurance from Grindelwald, and continued, his chins wobbling nervously, "…with the pensieves, isn't there a chance we could be watched? Noticed, like? I mean, me and the wife, we're respectable wizards…if the authorities thought we were stirring up anti-non-wizard feeling…"

"Mr Walmsely," Grindelwald replied, his honeyed tones returning, charming the man's ears as he delivered the reassurance the man craved. "The pensieve messages cannot be found unless people want to. That is to say, you can only leave your memories in your pensieve if you want to, and only the people with whom you wish to share your memories can see them, using the code-spells that _you_ set. You yourselves – " he swept around the group again, "have full control of how we, as conjurists, conduct our affairs. You may think as you wish: no law yet exists to police your thoughts! And I should be very shocked to think that a European country would put such legislation in place, considering the human wizarding rights it would infringe."

Before him Gellert Grindelwald felt the group relax. The collective mood was that they now had a platform to share their uncertainties and doubts, all without fear of legal retribution.

"But what about our planned action in October?" In a thick, mid-European accent a bearded wizard now spoke. Clearly he had met with Grindelwald several times for his words were assertive and determined. "We feel that our governments will arrest us before we have a chance to do what you have co-ordinated. My coven, of Graz, feel very strongly that action must be taken, as you outlined!"

"The government of Austria, nor that of Europe, cannot arrest you, detain you or otherwise put obstacles in your way for your beliefs!" Grindlwald laughed, his mirth mocking clearly the Ministries rather than the wizard's question. "Broeck, your commitment is admirable, as is that of your coven. The politicians can do nothing about your feeling, other than belittle your fears. But, of course, they are outmanoeuvred by their own logic."

"And, of course, science is on our side. The most stable energy field is that of wizards, purer blood the better for the most delicate spells, as I have explained before. For those spells where the outcome is in the balance pure blood wizards will always have the ability to tip the balance to success merely because of their ability. Even wizards with some powers have a talent for using nature to his benefit. What use is it that non-wizards learn magic? Even with a lifetime of single-minded determination, hard work, toil, they cannot and never can. Even if they are willing to learn, teaching non-wizards about magic is like teaching a pig to play the piano." Laughs flew around the wizards and Grindelwald stood silent momentarily, allowing his analogy to linger momentarily, the desired effect easily achieved if the look on his followers' faces was anything to go by.

"Governments," he concluded, "cannot hide away from the truth which is why our demonstration of collective protests, our forthright aggression, will bring home to all wizards what we stand for what we are and that we cannot be sidelined or pushed aside." Around Grindelwald a crescendo of applause, cheers and expressions of exaltation grew until all wizards, even Walmsley and the older wizards and witches, were clapping and hailing the mighty wizard.

"So, this purge of non-wizards," continued Broeck, clearly not willing to be sidelined. "What about those of limited magical ability, or those born to wizard families who have no obvious talents?"

"We do what we have always done," replied Grindelwald, his voice soft and beguiling. "It makes little sense to educate those wizards in magic, for it will be of little practical use to them. We should be encouraging our government to spend our money not only wisely, in such tough economic times, but also humanely. Bolster the feelings of those wizards, educate them separately so they do not feel overwhelmed or incapable. I am not advocating castigation, Mr. Broeck, far from it. Charity and sympathy should be our watchwords and we should be lobbying our governments for such changes. It is simply cruel to educate wizards with little or no magic in a highly magical environment, reminding them day in and day out of what they're not. And what of non-wizards? No! We are doing them a kindness." Applause now, nodding amongst the wizards. He had them on side. Grindelwald smiled.

"Per'aps it is something I can discuss at the next parliamentary sessions." Hilaire Beauchamps, a thin, whiskery wizard who Grindelwald knew to be a prolific member of a northern French coven spoke for them all. "We can all do something in our own countries, we can speak to our Magical Members of Parliament, we can simply talk to one another."

"Hear, hear!"

"Absolutmont!"

"Zeker!"

"Stimme! Stimme!"

"So, what do we do?" Emboldened now by the general agreement of procedure Walmsley spoke confidently now. "How do we do it?"

"Just as Mr Beauchamps suggests," replied Grindelwald. "In your places of work you promote the rights of wizards. Wherever you meet inequality you challenge it. When you meet your friends, when you come across other wizards in public, in your private life…waiting for the Floo, buying a newspaper…" His voice died away as Grindelwald surveyed them all. How willing they were, how keen. It had been far easier than either of them had ever thought.

"Which comes to the point of when. Our action must be together, it must be co-ordinated. We begin our purge of all things non-wizard in October. 30th October to be exact."

"31st October, you mean," shouted Bathazar Pugh, his Valleys dialect confusing many of the wizards and witches there.

"No, Mr. Pugh, 30th October," replied Grindelwald, his words smooth and slick. "And I am pleased that you and Mr. Price made such an effort to reach us. So many wizards in similar circumstances to your own might well have given up long before you did." He looked back at them all, silent that they were again, wrapt in anticipation.

"Ah, so!" exclaimed Wolfgang Broeck, thumping the air in realisation. "Of course. Six months before Walpurgisnacht."

"Precisely, Mr Broeck, precisely," replied Grindelwald, ignoring for now the confused looks of several nations of wizards. "So, we will begin by the labelling of wizardly objects with the mark, our mark, the conjurists mark." Withdrawing his wand Grindelwald raised it, scoring a capital "C" into the virgin air, with tail of C circled round on itself.

To the uninitiated the sign could best be described a little like a cross between a computer "at" symbol and a copyright sign. All wizards knew it. A circle around a circle was one of the oldest symbols of magic, of Auld magic itself, the magic of nature, of trees and plants, the magic where all modern magic springs. In Auld magic an encircled circle represented the whole world, the heavens and earth together. This was the magic that even non-wizards can feel, in the air, in the trees, in the changes of the season or time of the day, just before dawn on a high mountain in midsummer…midnight between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day…these are the times when non-wizards take notice but there are far more "magical" moments to be witnessed if more of them actually bothered to pay attention.

And Grindelwald also knew that the symbol represented something more, something which enticed each and every wizard of them back to their origins, back in the dark mists of history and before even then. Even the most liberal wizard knew that the mark represented them, those of magic, even if they did not subscribe openly or even willingly to the conjurists' cause.

For the loop surrounding the C left a gap, a small gap. The gap meant the circle was incomplete and it was the business of conjurists to close the gap to purify and prevent contamination of magic by those unworthy enough to be without magic's blessed power. Every wizard understood that, no matter what he protested.

The symbol had a second meaning too. It represented magic as it was now being broken, eroded and threatened, by law, by progress, by so-called equality and levelness. Each and every one of the witches and wizards there present instantly felt, deep down, even if they did not know it, a desire to fight, to regain the double circle for all wizard-kind. All present knew what they must do. Spread the symbol far and wide. The hillsides and the towns, the forests, the woodland. All needed to know that conjurists were not going to be put down.

"Which brings me to the matter of half-breeds." The glamour of the mark faded in the minds of Grindelwald's followers as the symbol lessened in the air. Beside the wizard a group of half a dozen hitch-hikers, first up the Black Forest's mountain that morning stopped abruptly, and looked ahead, confused.

"The anti-non-wizard charms are working then," whispered Mrs Walmsley to her husband, as the early morning sun shone ever brighter. Despite no chance of being overheard the wizards, including Grindelwald himself, fell silent. They watched, some with undisguised mirth, others solemnly and patiently, for the walkers to turn which, after a few moments, they did, clearly confused by the unseen obstacle in their way which was convincing them simultaneously that there would be danger if they proceeded to the top and that they were at the summit already.

"We have a duty to these creatures, as magical beings, to offer them sanctuary and shelter, as provided for them in European law. Albus Dumbledore will be making that such lobby to the Combined Government of Great Britain for, in their statutes, harbouring half-breeds is illegal. How can it be that European law is superseded to that of a member state?" He looked accusingly at the British witches and wizards, who looked down guiltily as if each of them individually were responsible.

"We must therefore protect our half-breed creatures, so to our magical beasts whose presence in zoos across Europe has become increasingly common. Few zoos know how to best look after these animals and as a result our magical animals are suffering because of the ignorance and arrogance of non-wizards and liberal, do-gooding liberal wizards.

"Shame! Shame!"

"Our overarching plan is to bring forth the power of a wizard with the potential to be far greater than both Albus and I," revealed Grindewald. "His influence and might will ultimately be our greatest asset when what he has to offer can be brought under our guidance. But this will take time and will require a great deal of strategy and strength, nerve and cunning on both our parts. Some of our work is, shall we say, bordering on the illegal. However both Albus and I will not break the law: we refuse to for the name of conjurism. In the meantime however it is up to you, faithful witches and wizards that you are, to take up the mantle of conjurism and fight for us however and wherever you can!"

As the witches and wizards drifted away both Beauchamps and Broeck lingered. They had been two of the first conjurists and were used to Gridelwald's mountaintop meetings. Both were Magical Members of the European Parliament and, as MMEPs were well-placed to offer both insight and assistance to the head of the Conjurist movement.

"Gentlemen," began Grindelwald, his tones still treacle-rich and his smile wide. "May I be the first to offer congratulations to you both?"

"Danke," replied Broeck, "although I must say it would probably not have been possible without the assistance of your good self." Before the great wizard both politicians felt humbled and inconsequential but neither of them were in the business of showing it.

"Herr Broeck, if I may, how fares the long-term education policy of the Institute Durmstrang?"

"Gut," replied Wolfgang Broeck. "That is, the entry requirements for the school will remain as they are for the future and it is my belief that they may grow ever tighter to preserve the quality of magical research which happens within its walls. As you said, pure-blooded wizards have talents beyond even the most average wizard and that is a rare thing which should not be squandered."

"Indeed."

"Parliament agrees with this sentiment," corroborated Beauchamps slickly. "And who would not at least enjoy the journey to the Harz, to the Brocken, to the gateway to Durmstrang?"

"You have our reports, Mr. Grindelwald, do you not?" added Broeck quickly. His heart-rate decreased a little as Gellert Grindelwald nodded.

"And you have met with Henrietta Edwards too? I did not see her amongst the wizards this morning. Will she be meeting with us now?"

"Dear Henrietta has indeed conveyed her sentiments, and regrets her absence," replied Grindelwald, nodding slowly. A small flicker crossed his eye as the Rosstrappe rocks crossed his mind, and below, the Bode Gorge. "She has proved herself most useful." Grindelwald paused, and smiled at both wizards.

"It is regretful however, that Miss Edwards will not be joining us."

88888888


	11. Understanding, more or less

"Why didn't you tell me that your accommodation got upgraded when you got promoted, Hermione?" Looking around the large apartment situated in the West of the city Harry's eyes caught the deep, plush settees, large en-suite which took up the entire south-west quarter of the room and the wide-screen television. Hermione however had walked past him heading towards the balcony which overlooked Boulevard Pierre Pfimlin, the main street opposite the squat European Parliament building, flinging open the doors and looking below to canal.

"It's all they had. I had to be grateful."

"Grateful?" replied Harry, aghast as he opened the door which led onto the bathroom, ogling its luxurious features. "This is fabulous! I can't wait till I floo Ron." Compared to their tiny home furnished with second-hand things this apartment, with its own elf and complimentary food (it told you how good your hair looked before you ate it) Harry considered the place to be the last word in sophistication. Hermione swung round and walked towards Harry who had now closed the door and was heading for the huge bed adjacent the en-suite.

"Glad you approve," said Hermione, a little coarseness in her tone. "If I'd had managed to get the promotion sooner we would have been in the Council of Magic apartments. Not that I'm complaining," she added quickly, sensing Harry's fixed hold on her as they hugged. She hated discussing her job with her, more so if he felt she was complaining too much. Hermione's responsibilities now lay with the Magical European Parliament, situated directly below the circular non-wizard building which always looked to Harry as someone had forgotten to finish building the roof.

"I mean, I would have liked to have been assigned to Henrietta's department," she added, kissing Harry. "It would have given me more opportunities and a slightly more manageable workload."

"But it'd mean you'd have been here more often though," replied Harry, wondering what could have been better than this. "You'd have had to work here all week."

"Yes," replied Hermione. "But you could have lived with me and floo'd to London. Lots people do it."

"I suppose so," said Harry, looking round them as they made their way over to the settees, circumnavigating the huge pile of luggage that Hermione just had to bring with them. Harry knew better than to ask, hoping he'd be able to find his single change of clothes in amongst everything else. "Why don't you just stay here with me tonight? It is a Sunday after all," he continued as they curled up together, relaxing into the plush fabric as he flicked on the television using the remote control. How like a wand this piece of non-wizard technology, Harry'd always thought. "I could cancel Ron," he added.

"Like I said," Hermione replied patiently. "The French interior minister is here tonight and he goes tomorrow. I'll be able to meet with his department this evening and get more information out of him than his PR team tomorrow. It'll save me time, I promise. We can go out to dinner in the Parliament restaurant tomorrow night without me even thinking about work."

"I suppose so," nodded Harry, watching the scrolling news Bannerman at the bottom of the screen, not taking in any of the capsulated headlines as he thought back to when Hermione had first explained it to him. She'd explained about the promotion too, and how they might have lived in Strasbourg.

Harry had been secretly happy; he liked their home, even if it was small and they couldn't afford everything they wanted. There was something a little suspicious to him about a job that gave you all this, like they owned a little bit of you in part exchange, such as Hermione rushing out to work rather than them stopping in and her working in the morning. But he knew he wouldn't be able to enjoy the live European Quidditch match that evening between England and Finland on such a marvellous television with his best friend if Hermione had just floo'd to Strasbourg in the morning. Sometimes Harry wondered whether he even understood politics at all; his desk job in the Department of Justice just wasn't that intriguing. He liked it that way.

"And we can go to the city's museum first," Hermione added. "They've got a large Celtic/Roman exhibition on this week, so I can meet you just after lunch and we can go there."

"Cool," nodded Harry. Not much that was academic really interested him as a rule but mention history and, like his mother, Harry was hooked. It was why he had taken the research job in the Ministry in the first place – if there was a law to be looked up, if a precedent was in the balance, Harry trawled the archives and compiled a report. It had been that or the Department of Mysteries and, while development magic did interest him history was his passion.

That, and Quidditch. Harry's eyes glanced at the recent local scores – the Sunday matches had been played, including that of the Butterbeer League. He searched for the Godric's Gods…had they won against the Skipton Sprites? He felt Hermione nuzzle a little closer to him. Could his life be more perfect than this?

An hour and a half later and Hermione had gone to work. Ten minutes before the start. He'd ordered some food in, a takeaway and a few beers but still no sign of Ron. Had he forgotten? Surely not! It was the quarter finals and if England got through they would be facing Slovenia no less, a team which had got through, against massive odds, beating Sweden. If they could beat them they'd be in the finals in three weeks' time.

A crackle in the modern-made-to-look-old fireplace made Harry turn; he'd indulged in the facilities, used the complimentary toiletries in the en-suite (which had informed him that his time playing quidditch for the local pub team had had a positive effect on his physique) and had had a pre-takeaway sandwich brought to the door by the building's elf Mimsy. No-one was standing where he had been expecting his best friend – had he forgotten?

Seven minutes till brooms-up. Where _was _Ron? They'd planned to go out on the town afterwards too, celebrating (hopefully). If he'd been delayed by yet another far-too-young girl he'd be quite cross. Not that it would stop him eyeing up anyone that caught his eye here in France.

Five minutes. Harry glanced at the pile of bags which were still lying behind one of the settees – what _had_ Hermione brought with her, more to the point? Trying not to think of the start of what could be a rather historic match he pulled on the handle of one of the larger bags, stopped, rubbed his bicep, then withdrew his wand, levitating it and the smaller one to the window-side of the bed. A cheer erupted from the television and Harry looked up sharply to see the English and Finnish players jogging out onto the huge oval pitch in Berlin where the championship was being held.

Abandoning his idea of unpacking for Hermione he sank into the sofa again, looking at the English players. They were decent, the most decent team England had fielded in a long time. Bannermanman…Quatley – he had started in the Gods as a junior player –...a huge wizard called Hieronymus who, defying all reason and logic, was _the_ deftest, nimblest, and most skilful seeker in the world…McGrew and Thales, beaters, their long thick ginger beards the height of tangential entertainment when flying at high speed, seemingly to have a mind of their own...

…Harry looked at the clock on the screen and then back over to the fireplace. One minute to go. Where _was_ –

"Harry!" Harry swivelled his neck sharply, narrowly avoiding straining a muscle.

"Where've you been? Never mind, it's starting!" Harry pulled his friend down next to him as Ron rounded the settee. The players soared high into their starting positions and both wizards inched forward, waiting for the whistle.

"You're not interested…? Seriously…? _Seriously_, seriously?" Passing Ron another Butterbeer from the sideboard and glancing at the takeaway wrappers, Harry began to pace a little before the television screen as he listened to his friend tell him about his latest squeeze. The forty-five minutes prior to this moment had passed in what felt like a second but now that his best friend was talking about how he was interested in this new young lady time seemed to be dragging through an aeon.

"I can't say much," conceded Ron, cagily, "the situation is delicate. But Harry," he continued, just as Harry was about to press him, "she's got the most lovely figure – " Harry noticed his friend's eyes glaze over in a way he'd never done before when Ron had been describing a woman, "and a cute smile, and – "

" – it's starting again!" interrupted Harry as he glanced at the screen. He flopped down next to Ron, a pile of creepy crisps (a childhood favourite) in hand. As the Finnish team trooped back out, brooms aloft in both hands as they approached the England team Harry also realised he felt grateful. He also hoped, as he watched the referee, an ex-Bulgarian champion and now chairman of FIQUA (the Federation of International Quidditch Association) blow on his whistle, that Ron hadn't got himself mixed up into anything too serious.

An hour later and both wizards were tearing around the apartment yelling and thumping one another on their backs. England were through, and a step closer to taking the World Cup.

"Oh, bloody hell," puffed Ron at the exertion, "I never thought that was going to happen! The way McGraw clobbered that bludger. Inches! Inches I tell you from Nikulainen," he yelled, reliving the moment as Harry grinned back. "I tell you…and then, B and Q!"

"B and Q," repeated Harry, leaning against the back of the sofa as the euphoria ebbed away. B and Q represented Bannerman and Quatley together, the best players England had ever seen. Quatley was the seeker and Bannerman defence. How they co-ordinated their moves so well was anyone's guess but they'd managed it: Bannerman had waited till almost the last moment to deflect the Finnish goal just as Quatley's fingers closed over the wings of the snitch, plucking it from the air as he curved around the pitch at high speed.

"I'll never forget that as long as I live," concluded Ron as he leaned next to Harry. "That was really one to see. So," he added, nudging Harry, "are you going to be at the street party they're holding in Oxford Street tomorrow? It's going to be right over the Ministry. Some non-wizards are furious, of course, that Quidditch is getting so much publicity. March it down Diagonalley, one person said, can you imagine?" He shook his head in exasperation. "It's not as if the English football team could do that."

"Not fly, no," replied Harry, his mind now on the bags that he had transferred from a pile by the settee next to the bed.

"You know what I mean," Ron said sardonically, nudging his friend. "It'll be just below the Department of Justice. I'll floo there at lunchtime," he added.

"I'm on leave," replied Harry getting back to his feet. "Do you want the shower first, or second?" Now the excitement of the match was in the recent past now he thought on, to their evening out. Wherever they were to be going it wouldn't be as exciting as in London now, enjoying the quarter final celebrations. "I'm going with Hermione to a museum."

"That'll be fun for you," replied Ron sarcastically, answering his friend's question wordlessly as he paced towards the bathroom, and also knowing that any such pursuing of the idea that they should go home to celebrate for the evening would be out of the question now that he had been reminded of Hermione.

"So, what's she like, then?" shouted Harry, having given Mimsy the elf their dirty crockery and takeaway wrapper-strewn tray and beginning to navigate around their two weeks' worth of clothing that Hermione had thoughtfully packed for two nights away.

"Very clever, knowledgeable." Ron's voice echoed through into the apartment over the spray of the shower. "Not much experience of the world though, but she has this way of talking…she's so full of confidence. There." He poked his head round the door and looked at Harry, knee deep in dresses and trousers in search of something for himself to wear and chucked.

"I don't think that blue dress will suit you," he added, "but the pink halterneck will."

"Shut up," said Harry, getting up from his crouching position. "Must be in the other bag. I'll have the shower first then find something." He passed by Ron as his friend was beginning to dress.

"So she's like Hermione, then?"

"Not really. Hermione is more…academically able. She's more…perceptive."

"She's a non-wizard, then?"

"I didn't say that," replied Ron. "I just said it was delicate. Complicated."

"You said that last time when you were seeing Kayleigh. And her brothers came looking for you with cricket bats."

"Katie," replied Ron, "and yes, there was a bit of a misunderstanding there. But no…she's…

"Younger than you?" Harry called back through the bathroom as he switched in the showe.

"Not much. Nineteen."

"That's a lot younger, Ron," replied Harry, watching his friend tuck a checked shirt into jeans. "You're twenty eight."

"Yes, I suppose so," nodded Ron.

Ten minutes later and, as Ron watched the edited highlights of the England-Finland match Harry was again on the hunt for clothing.

"Have you seen this?" Pulling out the documents from the bag where he had stashed them before they had left, disguised amongst some of Hermione's work Harry removed the letter and book which had arrived the night before last in the early hours of the morning. The other books, which Hermione had thought she had binned Harry had rescued and were now on the bottom shelf of the book case in the spare room.

"Would you read these? They arrived addressed to me two nights ago at home." Harry glanced at the heap of clothes again as his friend narrowed his eyes slightly, wondering why a letter was more important than Harry getting dressed. Ron took the letter though and, with a brief squint, began to read as Harry found a pale lemon cotton shirt and some jeans to wear.

"What do you think it means?" asked Ron, having read the letter and looked at the still-blank torn out pages, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he stood at the end of the bed trying to concentrate. "What is all of this?"

"Do you remember those books I had that came in the post? We sat at the kitchen table and read them?" He watched as Ron frowned, looked back at the letter and then again at Harry.

"If you take what is written here literally, then…"

"Why am I still interested?" asked Harry, interrupting Ron's train of thought. "After this came I went back to the original books that had come."

"The ones Hermione threw away?"

"Yes." Harry looked back to the letter that Ron was still holding. "I retrieved them before dustbin day…_look _– " Harry pointed to the second paragraph down, " – I can see every piece of logic that says this is a big joke, or sent to the wrong person, or whatever, but – "

"…but…?" prompted Ron doubtfully.

"It says that only I can reveal what is written. I don't know what those are – " he waved his hand towards the torn blank leaves, " – but those pages were empty just like those when I first looked at them."

"And now…?"

"Well, before we went, Hermione was packing, so I took a look at them. The first one was "The story that never was," like you know. But on the second there were some words, at the back, the last page, write at the bottom, when everything else is empty. They said 'Help me' Ron," emphasised Harry, looking earnestly at his friend.

"What have I got to do with anything?" asked Ron, handing the letter and pages back to Harry. Harry stopped and thought for a moment before comprehension dawned.

"No, not 'Help me Ron,'" he continued, laughing momentarily, "just 'Help me'. What if this is to do with Mrs Lupin? I mean, she wrote that book. And it also says in that letter there too that someone was in danger. She's missing, isn't she? We know that much."

"So?"

"Well, whoever wrote this letter was either stone serious or is playing a very sick joke at my expense." He glanced back at the letter. "If you take this literally…it begs for help on someone's behalf…it says they're in deep trouble. Well, doesn't actually say that, as such…" Harry conceded, taking in Ron's doubtful expression.

"But Ron…what if it is true? If I just ignore all of this and someone, perhaps even Mrs Lupin, needs my help? Perhaps I'm the only one who can help!" Harry began to pace as the thoughts which had raced round his mind two nights ago came to the surface. "But who are they? How can I find them and help them?"

"How do you know that this so-called person in trouble is not playing an inter-floo game of Cauldrons and Dragons, and this hasn't just appeared at random on your doorstep?" Ron took the documents from Harry, holding them out flat in his left hand. Over the letter and the blank pages Ron swept his now-drawn wand.

"No, no evidence of being through the floo network." British Floocom engineer Weasley carried out a few other basic checks before handing it back to Harry before waving his wand once more. "Nothing to do with Fred or George either," he added. Harry looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

"I know their code-spell for the entire Wizarding Weasley empire. If it was them it'd have shown up. The history of vibrations are stored in the very atoms." Of course, nodded Harry. Level 1 magic, taught to all within the first term at Hedgewards.

"But what if it is to do with Mrs Lupin?" Harry pressed. "Caelius can barely look after himself let alone Septimus. And according to Sam he's terrified."

"Seriously?"

"A young boy whose father has been ravaged by vampires and whose mother has gone missing? Of course he's scared! Even if Remus suddenly does wake up and returns to full health. Imagine what he could be like! Your dad bitten by a vampire and then you found out your mum, who's been away for such a long time has gone missing. Imagine if it was your parents!"

"You've given this a lot of thought," replied Ron, a tone of annoyance and exasperation in his voice. But his tone was honest. From anyone else Harry might have thought his friend was mocking him, but Ron, he knew, did mean it genuinely. "And it says a lot about you that you think someone is in trouble," he continued. "What does Hermione say about all of this?" When Harry said nothing and stowed the letter and pages back between the two documents between which they had earlier been sandwiched, Ron nodded knowingly.

"She's got so much on, Ron. I know more than she's telling me, and I know that she wants to do her utmost to impress. I mean – " he waved his arm around the room, " – this is impressive, it's great, but…it's taking up so much of her time. She's at a meeting chaired by Draco Malfoy tonight…"

"So," concluded Ron, summing up his friend's discomfort in one syllable and clapping him on the back, "all of this is to do with Hermione spending time with the one wizard in the European Parliament this side of thirty and voted "Sexiest Bum" five times in a row in "Witch Weekly's" annual poll?"

"No," said Harry, wondering how his friend would know about "Sexiest Bum."

"Ginny," said Ron, answering Harry's silent question. "Look, all of this, it's probably just a joke, someone winding you up on your birthday," said Ron, thinking about the night on the town they were supposed to be enjoying right now. "Forget about it, "Boy Who Lived"". Harry shot him a look, sensitive as he still was by his inclusion in Mrs Lupin's ridiculous book. ""Chosen One" then, if you prefer," continued Ron, cheekily. "You Know Who isn't here, remember, your parents are very much alive and Mrs Lupin is still very much working for the Caelius, so she'll be well and truly alive and doing his bidding somewhere."

Harry nodded. Maybe he was reading too much into all of this. Maybe he really should be finding the potential intended recipient of these books – after all only the outer wrappers were addressed to him, not even the letter itself mentioned his name. Was he really sure that those words weren't there right at the end of that book in the first place? He hated it when his best friend was right. Ron _was_ right, though. He was taking all of this far too seriously. Closing up the bag around Hermione's work Harry picked up his wallet and slipped on his shoes.

"Tell me some more about this mysterious nineteen year old then." Harry held the door open for his friend, pocketing the key before pacing out onto the landing and towards the lift. "Is she fit?"

Some time later and Hermione had returned to the luxury apartment, its sumptuousness lost on her as she kicked off her shoes, dumped the pile of work on the leather lined desk and made her way towards the bathroom. Even after a bath and a good night's sleep she knew she would probably feel as if she was long overdue for another.

A loud snore brought her to the here and now and she shot her head towards the settee and the two now-sound-asleep figures taking up residence there. Despite her mild resentment at their blissful absence of responsibility and the consequential stress that a day such as today had brought, she grabbed the spare duvet which hung over the back of the door and threw it over them. She would have the bed to herself then, Hermione concluded, entering the bathroom and turning on the taps, the steam spiralling upwards from the hot water tap and filling the room.

An hour later and Hermione was, rather than sleeping as she knew she should be, poring over the fine detail of the "Human Rights Bill" which was about to go through Parliament. She needed to prepare a statement outlining the Bill's application to Britain, where colonial and commonwealth laws existed which had a bearing on where and when Continental laws applied.

Getting to her feet Hermione crossed over to the refreshments before casting a wand over a cup and getting a hot steaming tea before her. She would need the statute book before she could even prepare the proposal let alone the implications to National Law. And then of course, local council byelaws would be invoked over local matters, no matter what she wrote. Closing her eyes she wondered whether all this was just a bit too much for her. Not the skill required or her ability but her weakness concerning attention to detail. Working in her own pernickety manner meant hours of time spent studying dry law books, parchments and documents before she had even finished the introduction of many of her reports.

Not that Harry seemed to mind. On the contrary he supported her wholeheartedly, fitted around her erratic and often prone-to-change lifestyle. Hermione had once overheard Harry flooing Ron and telling him that he wouldn't have her any other way. But sometimes she wished she could give Harry the same in return – his job was mundane, run-of-the-mill, ordinary, compared to hers. Perhaps that in itself pleased him, no matter what she thought of, for want of a better word, a secretary in the Department of Justice. Perhaps the contentment of a stable job was _actually_ what he wanted.

Just then, she noticed that a small stack of books and files with familiar pale green and lemon covers and smiled. Hermione knew she hadn't got all of what she needed despite going through everything at work and home, packing and repacking for almost two hours. At least she might find something useful in there.

Getting to her feet Hermione began to pace tiredly across the carpet, trying to keep down the noise, before seizing the files and returning to the desk. Just then a light in the fireplace caught her attention.

"Hermione?"

"Sam!" She crossed the carpet immediately and knelt before it, lowering her voice.

"Is it Harry you want? Because he's asleep," she qualified, hoping that her soon-to-be brother-in-law would go quickly.

"Oh, OK," replied Sam casually. "Nice place you're staying in. Not bad for a hotel."

"It's a work apartment," corrected Hermione.

"But Harry is on holiday, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"You're not serious?" continued Sam, his voice steady and his lips curved in a smile. "I'd never have thought of Germany as a holiday destination. Same as Switzerland…Scandiavia…give me Greece or Spain any day." Sam stopped, but didn't go. Hermione wondered why he was so keen to linger.

"Well, when you've been on the family holidays like I've been on…tents…camping…Scotland and Wales…out of season, France is a lovely place to be."

"Well, France, obviously," remarked Sam. "But what's Germany like?" Before Hermione could answer though she jerked her head to the right. Harry was getting up.

"It's Harry," replied Hermione, a hint of happiness in her voice. Now maybe young Sam would disappear and come back another time.

"Hi Sam," said Harry, as he walked unsteadily, bleary-eyed towards them, before taking Hermione in his arms and giving her a big kiss. "How's the meeting?" he glanced at the clock. "Wow, that's late…2.30…but surely you haven't been there that long working, have you?"

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," said Sam quickly. "It's nothing important," he added as both Harry and Hermione looked at him sharply.

"No, not all the time. I had a bath, and a cuppa," she added, knowing that these activities didn't take up a large chunk of the two hours. "And then I did work, yes." She walked back over to the desk, throwing the files onto the desk, trying not to think of the confusion that had been that afternoon and evening. So much to do, so much to organise…so many people to meet and languages and buildings to navigate…and, as Ginny had rightly told her from her Draco Malfoy obsession, the President of the Magical European Union was indeed eye candy. All these distractions, and even Henrietta Edwards could not be found, so that she could deliver a message to her from the Combined Government. "But these'll keep till tomorrow," she added deliberately. "Come on, we all need some sleep." She glanced past Harry's bare shoulder, meaningfully.

"Ron's got to go early in the morning, he's got an early BF shift, fixing the floo network just outside Ealing. It's a big job, he says," said Harry, making his way with Hermione to the bed.

"Leave him to sleep then," said Hermione, wondering how she was going to break to Harry that their planned afternoon was going to have to be unplanned again. "Was it a good match?"

"We got through," said Harry, glancing back towards the desk, knowing that the letter sent to him and those blank pages were there, somewhere. He was too tired to notice that Hermione was showing unusual and possibly purposeful attention to a match of a sport about which she was usually indifferent.

Five minutes later, having visited the bathroom Harry snuggled down next to Hermione, holding her close, indifferent to the sleeping presence of his friend. When she'd got off her chest the thing that she didn't want to tell him, probably that he would have to visit the museum on his own tomorrow, then he'd be happy. Harry closed his eyes and within minutes he was asleep, images of that evening's match, the night out lubricated by several drinks, the apartment, his forthcoming wedding appearing at random within his cranial slideshow.

From between the pile of aforementioned documents the letter Harry had discussed with Ron began to move slightly and then fall still. Almost immediately the words, "Art of the Wize." Tell Caelius," appeared in the book that Harry had hidden away in plain sight at their house in Sussex above the words "help me".


	12. A Decade and a Lifetime

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It was nearly morning. The hospital windows shimmered in the early dawnlight as Caelius Lupin looked around him. On the lowest floor deep in the basement of St. Mungo's it would be a naïve person who thought that the reason people who had been bitten by half breeds were given beds down here was to _protect_ them from any danger. Despite his first impressions however Caelius didn't find his brother in a dingy dark corner hidden away. In fact, the room could hardly have been more spacious – every need was catered for down here. Every need. On the shelves adjacent Remus sat several vials of very thick red wine. At least, Caelius hoped they were red wine – he refused to let his mind consider what exactly they could be.

Looking back to Remus as he held his brother's hand Caelius smiled as he thought of the positive angle in all of this. His brother, and Sirius Black, lying adjacent and also unconscious, might have been dead. Septimus might have lost his father, so Caelius was determined to think that the situation wasn't all bad. Another advantage was that he wasn't at the cottage contemplating that evening's meeting at Grimmauld Place. At least Septimus was being cared for by Sam's parents, Lily and James, that night and he didn't have to worry about the boy now, or feel the wretchedness of leaving him alone with only a portkey charm as his means of reaching him.

Despite his best endeavours, here in the gloom Caelius's tired mind began to switch back to that evening's Reciprocator meeting, fraught and complicated. Septimus had been knocking around with Sam upstairs, something Caelius always encouraged, for Sam was a decent lad, and he had urged his nephew to share some of the woes he had talked to Caelius about that evening.

Septimus was worried about his mother and Sam, Septimus had told him later, had encouraged him to write her a letter or send her an owl. That seemed to cheer Septimus up and, quiet and thoughtful, the boy had followed Caelius into the kitchen from the outside steps of the cottage to help him with dinner, a little more buoyant than he had been when they had both left that afternoon. That was, right up until the moment Freya Mitchell, Septimus's adopted sister, had arrived at the cottage.

Caelius knew that Septimus had buried his feelings about his mother and Freya deep inside; he knew the boy knew that something had happened between them, and that was what had prompted Cecilia to leave. But Freya had merely stopped by for a chat and a catch-up and Caelius had been relieved to hear them talking about their early years spent living in Edgeford, walks and trips they had been on, things they had done together. Over dinner the three of them had talked of happier times, with Caelius chipping in about the memories he had of when they were both small.

Freya had then gone on to talk about Dudley Dursley, Petunia and Regulus Black's elder son. Septimus knew they had a younger son, Darren, whom he had met once before and, once Freya had departed back to Tonks's house, where she now lived, he had gone on to wonder aloud to Caelius whether Dudley and Freya would be getting married.

"Girls always think about getting married," said Septimus as he helped his uncle Kay with the washing up when Caelius asked why he had asked. "I remember her talking about the types of dresses she and her friends would wear when they got married…I remember when she used to dress up and pretend she was wearing a wedding dress!" Caelius had glanced down to look at Septimus who, far from exclaiming the fact, was speaking of it matter-of factly. "Crystallia was looking at wedding dresses when we all were last in Diagonalley. But it doesn't mean she's thinking of getting married, though."

Haha! Caelius had laughed silently to himself at his nephew's adroit observations. With such insight into women, lad, Caelius had thought as he had dried the dishes, you'll go far.

"And you'll be there to see him go far, brother of mine," he said softly as he continued to hold Remus's near lifeless hand. "He'll be, oh, a great wizard…he'll be an Earth wizard…herbs or beasts will be his medium, you mark my words. I've seen him out with you, on the mountains with the whole of nature wild around him, as if waiting for his command – "

Cutting off, Caelius smiled a little at the healer who had come to change the drip which was feeding into Remus's left arm.

"It's so good he's had visitors," she commented as she lifted down a vial of almost certainly not congealed wine, puncturing its lid and inverting it, resting it on the stand adjacent the bed. "Not like some. We've had some people down here for months without anyone. Even when we've let them go they've gone on their own." She shook her head, her dark curls, bound tightly under a peaked cap, shook madly at the back. "Mr Lupin here has been very lucky."

"Indeed. We all care for him so much."

"And was that his son you brought the other day?" Caelius nodded.

"I thought it best for him to see his father. He would worry, otherwise." Especially when Freya spoiled an otherwise perfect afternoon with her brother by telling him how bad she felt for treating Cecilia that way and that perhaps, if she hadn't his mother might be there now and that she might have not gone away in the first place. Thank you, Miss Mitchell, thoughtlessly put, as usual. He watched as the nurse tended Remus, wiping his brow, checking his pulse and taking his temperature before noting it down remotely by way of a quill writing down the vital information as she took it onto a chart which was hanging at the foot of the bed. She smiled at Caelius briefly before crossing over to where the still body of Sirius lay.

"Couldn't you stay too?" Septimus had asked of Caelius, his face serious, his expression hopeful when it had been agreed that he could sleep over at the Reciprocator headquarters in Sam's room after the meeting. Caelius had shook his head and explained that he had several hours of work to prepare for the next day for the Ministry. After an understanding smile, Septimus had followed Sam upstairs and Caelius had left promptly.

Thinking back to the meeting he shuddered. Not that it had lasted long but the atmosphere was weighed down with the absence of both Remus and Sirius, ill as they were and the news that Caelius had brought that the Ministry had not settled on a course of action yet had caused the difficult talks to descend to further depths of iciness. Even James's attempt at humour had been met with stony silence, so much so he had got up and strode into the kitchen, leaving the rest of the Reciprocators to discuss the ever more complicated, imprecise courses of action that were open to them.

Just before Septimus had come downstairs to meet him, before they left for dinner, James had insisted he discussed with Caelius privately the changes which the Ministry were likely to make. The Ministry still had to ratify the policy of Hedgewards allowing non-wizards access to the school, delayed as it had been because of the more pressing emergency which were the rise in incidences of conflict between non-wizards and conjurists.

The meeting which was supposed to have happened that morning had been delayed until Tuesday following news from the European Parliament on developments they were making as a result of conjurist attacks and those by other wizard fundamentalists. As the head of the European Relations Department it was his responsibility to distil the information to the ministry, and he was unable to do this until after his meeting on Monday evening. This meant that he had to delay deploying the reciprocators to liaise between the primary schools of prospective non-wizard students and instead redirect them to assist with monitoring of potential violent hot-spots – sports events, public meetings, legal hearings, coven assemblies. There was no clear roles for any of them, they supposed – and agreed upon – that they would be there to assist the Aurors as and when they needed it.

"Up until Tuesday, till you know what we need to do." Caelius had nodded before narrowing his eyes as James handed him something, a rather weighty document bound with string.

"As you requested. Projections of changes that Hedgewards will need to accommodate non-wizards. You have a lot to do before September," he added as Caelius untied the string and flicked through the recommendations, combed through for every infinitesimally small detail and leaving no stone unturned.

"I won't be alone." Caelius had bound the document with the string again before taking a thinner report, briefer, but lacking in no less detail.

"Lily asked me to give you this. She apologises for not being here this evening. She felt it necessary to be with Sirius and Remus.

"Of course." Caelius had nodded and looked through this document as his mind drifted vaguely to this room, with these people in it, caring for the abominably ill and hideously deformed, those people who so many had forsaken. "Adjustments to the Hedgewards Curriculum for Equality of Opportunity for both Wizards and Non-Wizards." Just as Caelius had wanted. From what he could see Lily had made links between wizard and non-wizard subjects offering suggestions into topics which could adequately both challenge the practical skills of wizards while supporting and contextualising magic for non-wizards. A good deal about recent scientific and technological developments was included, a big nod towards her and Tabitha Penwright's reciprocator work.

Then, of course, he had to feed back the information to Severus Snape, in order for him, as the Headmaster of Hedgeward school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to make the immediate changes that would be needed for non-wizards to attend. That, and the now-legal, pan-European requirement that all professors at magical educational establishments to engage in academic research as part of the Directive for Commitment to Community and Society. The emphasis was based mainly around those academic areas which concerned non-wizards, so Hedgewards was well placed when it undertook the trial for the new syllabus that September. Would that he were a fly on the wall when Snape had that conversation with Professors Binns, Filch and Trelawney, though.

Caelius shook his head. So much to do but with so little time to do it in. He needed another twenty four hours, at least, on top of the twenty four he already had to fit in all that he now needed to do. Of course, he could use a time turner – he had done just that before now when he needed an few extra hours – but it took its toll in the end, you ended up borrowing future time that way…all a time turner did was delay the inevitable…but he had Septimus to consider, especially now, what with both his parents absent.

He let go of Remus's hand. His brother, lying there, so sick and ill, with little hope of recovery…

Yes, he was well tended. If all it took was regular attention from those he cared about he would be up and about, fully cured by now. But it wasn't that simple. And the person who really needed to be there with him was the one person who was missing.

There were grave concerns of those ministers in the know, Malfoy, the Mullens, Drick and himself, which he had not shared with the reciprocators. All who knew of the circumstances surrounding Cecilia Frobisher's appearance nearly twelve years before were deeply concerned about the disappearance without a trace of Cecilia Lupin from Durmstrang Institute. The tense nature of the meeting that night had kept Caelius from speaking about their concerns and no-one had mentioned her either, despite all present knowing about the situation.

Caelius was glad Sirius was not awake right at that moment because he would have probably experienced apoplexy at the mention of her name. He had not taken Cecilia's presence in their lives too well, changing as he had done from indifference to annoyance when she had used the information he had provided about his family to validate the research carried out by Snape on the Universal Link and made personal comments about each and every one of them. This had given way to exasperation and finally to what Caelius could only describe as hatred on her final confrontation with them all at the last meeting she had attended nearly two years before. How he had stopped himself from cursing her Caelius to this day never knew.

Though it was hardly Cecilia's fault; she had been distraught that Snape had let her go frm her position at Hedgewards when it was reorganised following Aberforth's death making redundant her research. She hadn't wanted to leave Septimus and had some anger towards Caelius over his decision over her future.

The fact was, however, that there was a huge fissure in the ever-reliable reciprocators caused by Cecilia confronting them and she had, in her own particular intrusive, blunt, abrupt manner, not won many friends over the years. Indeed, she had several enemies, or at least people who would be her downfall given half a chance.

To give Cecilia her due however, though she had gone to Durmstrang reluctantly he knew that she did what she felt was necessary, and probably more, no matter the danger. She wouldn't be Cecilia if she didn't. It was heart or soul or nothing.

A deep intake of breath caused Caelius to look at his brother. No. He was just breathing again, his chest rising and falling with just a deeper inhalation interrupting uncompromising rhythm. If only Remus knew how much loyalty he had inspired in the reciprocators, his friends. And Sirius too. Lily and James had visited on more occasions than was their share, as had the Weasley family, Diggle and Braddle, Sturgis Podmore and Shacklebolt.

If only you knew how you were loved, my brother, said Caelius to himself. Not least by me. In another part of his mind he housed his guilt over the mission he and Sirius were on. But consummate a politician that he was it was sectioned in his mind away from the here-and-now. The box would open, he knew, but he had too much on at the present to allow time to waste on is emotions.

And what of your wife? Were she here, he knew Cecilia would be at his side, sharing her time talking to Remus and shouting and cursing at Caelius for his role in Remus's condition. Vociferous indeed. Where she was now was, ultimately, his greatest concern and it had been since the moment she had arrived, not least that the memories accessible from behind the veil, which only Cecilia to this day had ever survived, and through which media the pensieves were now being used for communication.

Some would say she would have been better kept from the world – some had. But Aberforth, as usual, had got his way in the end for the sake of humanity and the better world towards which they were working. Aberforth was now gone and the responsibility lay with him. No matter his silky words almost twelve years ago if he had known what he did now she would never have left the Ministry.

Even the reciprocators had questioned his judgment – not that of Aberforth, he had noted bitterly when he had chanced upon a conversation late one night at Grimmauld Place shortly after the Cecilia Incident shortly after Aberforth had died. They had been swayed by Aberforth's vision, James had said. And, why had she ever turned up on their doorstep? Why was she still there? Why had she never left? Caelius knew, however, that no-one would question him to his face for there was still a measure of protocol and Caelius had never seen any point in bringing it up.

And besides, what would he imprison her for? What could he say she had done? He looked across at Remus. But interned as he had made her, as a spy at Durmstrang, had he not, in effect, imprisoned her? Cold, and political, yes. Caelius had been called much worse. But he made her see her purpose was useful, valuable, irreplaceable. And, of course, he had torn her away from her family.

She wasn't the only missing person. Tabitha Penwright hadn't been seen since June, although her absence was entirely more explainable, given her methods of investigating her mysteries. If Miss Penwright's traits were displayed by anyone else they would be described as erratic, strange and unpredictable. But she got results, and she was good. No, Tabitha would resurface, sooner or later, probably under armed giant guard believing it to be the day before yesterday.

At least she would have her say on Lily's report on Auld Magic. Tabitha had contributed a lot to the content and when she did finally read her comments could be taken into account. Along with Lily's recommendations her preliminary report had been enclosed – the Ministry had agreed to accept it without corroboration from Tabitha Penwright quite simply because she was engaged in Ministry business. And the fact that Harry and Hermione were in Strasbourg meant they would probably bring back a report from Henrietta Edwards, their contact in the European Parliament regarding the conjurist situation on the continent.

No, it wasn't all bad, and nothing he couldn't handle. He looked at his brother again, his mind quietening. Perhaps he could have brought Septimus this evening. The lad had spent the second of his two visits (unlike the first) taking to his father about his last few days at school and what he had been doing that summer. Septimus's hopes and fears about Hedgewards might have been enough to rouse Remus, perhaps, or at least provoke some sort of response.

Caelius got to his feet and began to pace Aberforth-like between Remus and Sirius's beds. Poor Septimus. He knew his nephew deserved far more than he could provide, family that he was or not. Despite his omniscience he had such a blind spot for Septimus and he knew this to be a personal weakness. No other eleven year old he would have sanctioned coming here; no other child. If Sirius had had children he would have upheld the hospital's policy on Health and Safety – if the patients down here had their health then no visitor had their safety. He wondered if Remus would be surprised if he knew just how important his son was. He knew about Cecilia's past of course, one of only a handful that did. But what would he make of Aberforth's speculation?

That's if he ever recovered. If he recovered and the situation was less than critical at the ministry Caelius resolved to share a little more with his brother. A safe bet considering the circumstances. Even in the dim light Caelius could see the huge gouge marks on Remus's neck where the illegal vampire had struck. He knew from reports from the so-called owners, now guests at Azkaban, that both he and Sirius had done their best to fight off the attacks, coming so swiftly and unexpectedly when they entered the suspected conjurists' house. And now, almost a week later neither had moved save a few heavier breaths and a couple of flinches.

The nurses were doing their best too, their care could not be better. But, of course, Sirius had the far better chance. Once he regained consciousness Severus Snape could brew the potion that he had done for Caelius and, when a full moon presented itself or, even better, a lunar eclipse, the parasites in his blood would be completely eradicated by the silver nitrate, the active ingredient, in the cure.

Then all Sirius would have to do was to take the monthly symptom-relieving potions like Caelius did. The parasites influence of causing the moon to interact with the water in a wizard's cells, unfortunate as he had been that he had been bitten by a werewolf, still, with the absence of aforementioned tiny beasts, still responded to the moon's influence, but to a far diminished extent. It was the difference between a slight tiredness of the eyes and a light-sensitive, nausea-inducing migraine.

Often Caelius wondered whether Snape had gone to the trouble of developing it only because he could. On thinking such thoughts Caelius tended, because of the plain vitalness of Snape's potion-making abilities, and also because he held equal status with him in the reciprocator movement (Aberforth had been specific in leaving the Hedgewards responsibilities to Snape, as was the school tradition to name a successor) for he had access to the same knowledge as Caelius himself.

The most brilliant thing that Severus Snape had done was to continue to marvel and astonish almost every academic and professional institution he had ever been in contact with. There was little he could not do in any given field, although his social skills and personableness were definitely areas to work on. Snape had come up with the lycanthropy cure by himself, calculated the correct dosage, established a viable matrix in which the silver nitrate to stabilise it and prevent it from decaying and formed a symptom reliever all by the age of twelve. Usually eminent and skilled wizards took years, decades, to perfect what Severus had achieved in the matter of months, and this was but a doxy-dropping hill compared to the Everest he had conquered, namely the Universal Link between wizards and non-wizards. So if anyone could help his dear brother it was Severus.

But there was one factor which hadn't escaped Caelius's notice. All potions which required metal salts as the active ingredient were stabilised by the root of a plant which had to be picked at the right time, when it flowered at night, and grew in only one place in the world. The effect of this was to make potions very expensive, even on the Wizard Health Service, and also very valuable. Because of its scarcity the small, otherwise inconsequential primrose plant was also sought by black marketeers, corrupt governments, drugs and armament manufacturers. Not so bad when, as a politician, you could pull a few strings. But, reports, independently verified reports, stated that the source had been harvested almost clear of the primroses and had been sealed off by the Mongolian government. The chances of getting some were about as good as Remus miraculously waking up with no ill effects whatsoever.

Caelius looked at his sleeping brother again before sitting back down next to him taking his hand. This wasn't about to deter Severus Snape, however. When he came across a problem, especially one as stubborn and impossible as this Caelius knew that the wizard would be spurred on by the challenge.

He held tighter to Remus's hand. Was he asking to much that the brilliant Severus Snape? _Had_ he asked too much already? Was he able to reliably aid his brother's recovery as he had helped him? Caelius closed his eyes, shooing away all thoughts of the Azkaban-high pile of work with his name on. Snape had to come up with something and fast so that Remus could wake up. For Septimus's sake.


	13. Another Decade, Another Lifetime

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Still no land in sight as Cecilia stood at the foredeck. Around her the crewless ship held its course as gusts of winds began to buffet the sails, making them billow in and out arrhythmically. Storm clouds were gathering on the horizon. She turned, facing the direction of the breezes and letting them blow coolly on her face. Despite the drop in air pressure the air was still warm.

The day, her second aboard the ship, was drawing to its twilight. Before long Cecilia would be alone in the North Sea with the blackness closing around her. The ship, with a pre-prepared cabin below and self-appearing food in the mess, knew her destination and she knew they had been sailing south west because of the rough proximity of the ship to the sun's path in the sky. Eventually she would be back in Britain, the smooth transit of the ship behind her, the eerie ghostliness of the solitude gone. She would be with Septimus and, heaven help her, the rest of them.

Even now it was hard to see these people as friends, or even colleagues. That she had lived and worked with them, wizards and non- for so long, presuming she knew them and, because of so many misjudgments, offered herself up for humiliation. So many things hadn't happened here, or had but with slight differences. Aberforth had counselled her many times over her situation and though he had been sympathetic and empathetic he hadn't truly understood. And even though Caelius said the right things it was always with such smoothness and professionalism that even she knew he was just giving her soothing-sounding words.

Why had she jumped in so readily? Looking back it hardly made sense. But the reality was that here was so like where she had come from she had convinced herself that it actually was. Because of her.

Because of her changing the memory clouds behind the veil when she had passed through it, here Joseph Black was the founder of the reciprocators, an organisation associated with the ministry which openly promoted wizard and non-wizard collaboration. Raymond Lully, an outcast of Sirius Black's family in the old world, a reciprocator who had collaborated with Poppy Pomfrey's grandfather Pompops, connected to the traitor Oswald Avery, who had given Remus's father the task of looking after Mysterious Mythology, the original book whose illustrations and diagrams had aided Cecilia in uncovering the Universal Link were merely a footnote in the history of collaboration here, being the wizard who had tried to stop the attack on the wizard bank Gringotts in 1956.

Instead Avery here had been behind the attack by a werewolf on the Lupin cottage with the aim of scaring off their father in joining the reciprocator movement. The beginning, if were needing to be pinpointed, of the conjurists.

Cecilia was the very last secret collaborator, recruited by Albus Dumbledore, the very last

reciprocator in the old world. How far she had come since those dim first days, in the old place, when she had thrown together some ideas written hastily on scraps of paper about what she thought wizards should know about non-wizards? How she had stabbed in the dark regarding genetics, treading ineptly on the feelings of those people she was there to help? How she had arrogantly lesson planned, and a collection of these random things a scheme of work…what else could she have done? What would anyone have done in her situation?

She looked overboard at the indigo-dark North Sea below her. Although they were skimming the waves quickly ther progress was slow and Cecilia believed that when she had slept in the hammock within the cabin, the only cabin that opened when it had become dark the night before, the ship hastened only by her conscious thoughts somehow. Or at least, that was what one of her colleagues with whom she had worked (or, more accurately, spied on) at Durmstrang had described it. Was it too much for her to hope that the ship would sail to the west coast of Cumbria or the Solway Firth so she had only a few miles to cover to the Lupin cottage.

And to see her son – oh! How she missed him! Her darling son who gave her so much joy. Who was her reason for not complaining for being treated so ill by his uncle. And Caelius knew he had exploited her too. She leaned over the railing and watched the miniature waves lapping by the hull and thought about the last decade or so. She was now in her forties and had seen so much, so many fantastical, wonderful, dangerous things. So many time-stealing things. The time had gone in a flash and what had she, other than her son, to show for it?

Cecilia thought about the time she had received the letter of 15th July 1996, coaxing her curiosity into action. How simple life was before she had received it. What if she never had? Had it not been for the vain, selfish streak in her personality and she might never have left Edgeford, pining as she had been for her dead husband, and possibly still in search of a purpose. a selfish side which might have left her in Edgeford. She would almost certainly not have been here, having crossed the dimensions of space/time to a different reality governed by altered past events. Where she had made commitments to people, her own son the most significant of which, that she was finding it difficult, almost impossible to honour Who knows what the world would be like if it hadn't been for her? It might have been better, for her, on balance.

A crunch behind her brought Cecilia into the here-and-now. Searching the wooden deck for what sounded like damage she scanned the deck as she hunted for its origin – the last thing she wanted was to be lost in the middle of the North Sea. But it was only the tiller, crunching around as it drove the capstan and shifting their position in the water. Cecilia ran her fingers through her hair and lay down on the mid-deck, her eyes at one with the now star-revealing sky.

How would it have been never to have known about wizards and magic? Never to have wracked her mind over the puzzle of Auld Magic that had been wrapped up in the enigma of Mysterious Mythology. That she had been just another person, shaking her head in shocked dismay at the apparent sporadic massacre of almost a hundred muggles that had occurred three months after the letter, at Halloween – oh yes she knew about it, no matter how hard someone in the Order of the Phoenix had tried to conceal it from her.

But, as the connections between magic and science had increasingly knitted together in this world through the very nature of their commonalities Cecilia Frobisher from the old world would have been astounded at the many outcomes of scientific and magical research. For example, the killings had not been random but systematic, carried out by the Death Eaters by establishing a genetic link between people, a gene in common, for example, from just one sample of hair or blood. The basis of Auld Magic as explained by science. The Death Eaters had been able to incapacitate people with one particular chromosome in common and leave them isolated so they could be finished off at the dark wizards' leisure.

Very powerful indeed, and awe inspiring, especially if you didn't know how it worked. Marvellous, however, if you did, but no less disturbing. It was no wonder Auld Magic was so revered, both in the old world and this one, for it tapped into the very fundamentals of science and produced eye-opening effects.

It had been Remus who had told her about the deaths, a few weeks after she had moved back into his cottage. But, Cecilia had further discovered, the massacre on the 31st October, just after she had arrived back from analysing the DNA samples at her old lab in Edgeford with Nick Smith, had been her Coventry. It was disgusting: it had reviled her to know that Dumbledore had put so much trust and invested so much in her and her work that he had made the Order stand by and allow the deaths to happen, sacrificing the lives on muggles on the gamble that she would succeed with the potion for Harry so that he could defeat lord Voldemort.

Once she did know the knowledge of this had driven her on, her dogged determination that she shouldn't stop, even though every fibre had been telling her for months that she should. It had got worse with the exhaustion she was feeling at the Dursley's house, but of course that had been pregnancy, possibly. Well, according to Petunia Dursley in any case but she was doubtful of a lot of things that had happened before she had disappeared behind the veil and traversed the memories. What had driven her on when she felt so removed from Harry's potion in the old world, she knew, had been the other of her twin purposes which was something entirely personal, a cure for Remus based around the presence of silver nitrate in whatever elixir she might have been able to design. It was the substance that had the possibility of destroying the lycanthropy parasite which caused the werewolf (always a wizard) to change when the water within the body's cells was polarised because of the full moon.

It was one thing she wished she could have discovered herself, a personal link to her Remus, back in the old world, put to death for his being a so-called halfbreed. Here it was entirely unnecessary for it was Caelius who was the werewolf not Remus and his condition had been under control since Severus Snape had developed a cure for him from ultra-rare ingredients when he was in his second year at Hedgewards. Her mind wandered as she re-trod old thoughts. Could he make it again? Could _she_? Why was Cecilia even using her mind to think of this utterly irrelevant question when she had promised herself she was going to put science and magic, and all that had come from the Universal Link behind her?

Once she had decided this, once she had decided to commit herself to her family no matter what, and forget her academic pursuits, crystallised at the moment Remus had made his way to Durmstrang and they had vowed passionately that they would put one another first, Cecilia had a purpose. But she didn't suppose it was going to be easy. Those long lost days in the past and a different time were part of her, things which wouldn't be so easily to disregard, in the same way as the differences in this world were hard to ignore.

At first it had amused Cecilia to spot differences between the two worlds. Ranging from hundreds of subtle nuances to the one huge discrepancy (namely wizards being known in the world by non-wizards) she would find herself chuckling inwardly to herself as she compared the two. Perhaps this was one reason she found it so hard to put the past behind her. Maybe it had been herself after all who had sown the seeds of discord between her and the reciprocators.

Cecilia inhaled the warm, now-night air as the mizzentops of the sails scored the night sky above her, as if connecting the stars like a celestial dot-to-dot. Shivering, she sat up and reached for her coat before lying back down in the uneven deck. Not that there were many differences, nothing you could really point to, but enough to be noticeable. Differences in sports, for example, was one thing she noticed: match scores, line-ups, team names (Sheffield Thursday? Who would have credited it?). The existence of quidditch as a wizard game held in equivalent esteem to the mighty football.

Slight shifts in dates of reigning British monarchs were another difference, along with several more wives for Henry VIII, a rearrangement of the sequence of Plantagenent kings (but with no difference in outcome) and William IV being known as the Airforce King – flight had been developed over a century earlier here and this monarch had chosen a different armed force in which to serve.

Subtle changes in the flightpath of lepidoptera, with little overall consequence, rather a change in the history books. But there were other areas where the butterfly of chaos may have given a huge flap in the other direction. Whereas in the old world – the Other Place as she liked to call the past dimension – Minerva McGonagall merely came from Dundee and supposed she was related to that most dreadful of poets William, here Minerva Topaz McGonagall had produced brilliant acclaimed poetry which was admired by both wizards and non-wizards alike. Freya, whom of course, she knew she would take in when she found out she was an orphan and whose parents had suffered at the hands of conjurists when Cecilia had first arrived. The little seven-year-old in this world had a gold bracelet with a date of birth on, given to her by her grandmother, the date of birth being that of Freya's grandmother. It was identical to the one which, in the Old Place, Cecilia had left with her friend Libby for Freya's birthday when she had left to work with the Order, which had belonged to Cecilia's grandmother.

And so that little butterfly, its fleeting vector having been altered by Cecilia herself, had progressed from amusing to irritating to downright annoying. She had been the direct cause of the unit of power now being called the Black, rather than the Watt, for it had been Joseph Black who had collaborated openly with non-wizards and developed the steam engine rather than Matthew Boulton's partner. Which of course had resulted in mutual wizard-non-wizard collaboration, sowed the seeds of resentment in both a number of non-wizards but, more significantly, wizards and had resulted in the existence of the narrow-minded, ignorant conjurists.

Cecilia's thoughts drifted to the near future. What would it be like when she got back to Britain? At least at Durmstrang, with highly academic but socially isolated wizards, she had a kind of connection. She could talk about scientific and magical theories and not be considered a threat or be made to feel different. In a strange way, in the extremes of right-wing wizardry as existed here, whose ever-emerging theories about the differences between wizards and non-wizards were constant fodder to whoever was driving the conjurists, she fitted in. But she had no-one at home, not even Remus, who had tried is best to understand, she knew. Aberforth Dumbledore had been the only one who she could ever confide but in his successors, Caelius and Severus, no such empathy. Cecilia had long ago stopped hoping for an equivalent ear or two once she had embarrassed herself with Severus and Caelius had made her leave after the spectacle that was Aberforth's wake.

The stars twinkled brighter now as night set in. Cecilia loved the night, the all enveloping darkness, where distinctions between, gender, appearance, magical ability…all of those things which people discriminated against other people existed. For so long Cecilia sought the dark, hiding herself away, from her family when she first went to work with Albus Dumbledore, from the students at Hedgewards, from the Ministry who were hunting her and Remus after the Great Battle, from the Dursleys. Who wouldn't love darkness when it afforded so much protection and anonymity?

And then there were things which never happened here at all. From the point of view of the reciprocators Cecilia had just appeared out of nowhere. Only a handful of people, Remus and Caelius, the Ministers who had been there when Cecilia had been rescued Lucius Malfoy, Rodolphus Lestrange, Mick and Dave Mullen, and Aberforth, who had explained to her the evidence of her journey, the letter of 15th July, which he described as an intransmutable object. No matter what else had changed in this reality compared to where she had come from, this stayed the same.

And, to complete the comparisons which her mind was clearly so keen to make Cecilia considered the wizard who had orchestrated the infiltration of the reciprocators in the Old Place, not so nearly well developed there because of their secretive nature. Here, Oswald T Avery was credited as the wizard who began first linked pensieves together rather than the metaphorical axe-wielder severing as many links between wizard and muggle reciprocators as he could find. In the 1930s here, in order to save on legwork between university and academic research facilities Avery developed a way in which pensieves could be connected together to send floo messages and scrolls instantly and more than one person. What wizard was without the Interpensieve, or the wizard-wide-web?

In short, her meddling in the thoughts and memories of wizards had resulted in many alterations to the present, not least the included the change in the course of the reciprocators' fate which had resulted in Joseph Black becoming the founder of the Reciprocator movement rather than its assassin. People had met, not met people, married, died, were born, were educated, lived differently as a result. Some people had not even existed, Raymond Lully being one and with him no Goblin Riots in 1956, no need to pass on the Universal Link hidden so skilfully in a copy of "Mysterious Mythology" for that deception was never needed –

Oh! How much would she have loved to have that book back, Remus's family's copy, the one with the words "Energy-Light-Magic" running around the page borders. She could see it still, in front of her still, in her mind's eye. It reminded her so much of the Remus she loved, reminded her of Remus here, who was her beloved in name only, so different that he was in many ways to her werewolf, and how she had to keep going for Septimus, how she was returning now for the love of her child and the pragmatic commitment she had made to the wizard she had married.

What else had she been expecting though, with so many differences in history? She could hardly have expected those wizards she had worked so closely with in the Old Place to be the same. Clearly the reciprocators bore some resemblance to the Order of the Phoenix, and to some extent they were now fighting a similar prejudice in conjurism that the Order fought in Voldemort. But for some their roles were dramatically altered, not least because of the fact that Lily and James Potter lived here, but also Henrietta Edwards, killed in the Old Place by Regulus Black to prove his loyalty to Voldemort.

But more than that. For example, it had been Aberforth Dumbledore who was the head of the recprocators, rather than Albus, who she had been expecting. He kept secrets, but on behalf of peacekeeping and research and development – home security one might say. Gellert Grindelwald was the major influence in the life of the elder Dumbledore brother and, had Grindelwald never met Albus the Dumbledore family might well have been a happier one. To what extent Cecilia had not been sure, but those were Aberforth's words one evening when she had, for yet another time, poured out her insecurities, fears and worries to the ever-patient wizard. In fact Cecilia thought they were probably the last words of significance Aberforth had ever spoken to her.

Whatever the statement meant, Albus may well have been the leader of the Order rather than some dangerous fundamentalist raising and nurturing bigoted fears and misappropriations in wizards. The leader of the Reciprocators, Cecilia corrected herself aloud, as the ship creaked around her, tacking into the wind. For here, she mused as the groundswell of water enlivened the ship's passage, Tom Riddle's father and mother had defied his grandfather and got married, lived together in quiet ordinary circumstances and sent all seventeen of their sons to Hedgewards rather than their eldest son becoming the most feared Dark Wizard ever known.

Cecilia shook her head, the gesture seen by no-one, of course. Would she ever be able to get over the dual comparisons? Would she never just be able to just live her life? She had been so caught up in the science of magic here, in this place, which she had forgotten to stop.

Or had been afraid to, knowing that it had given her a purpose before. In old world she was at the beginning, a pioneer. Here, what she thought was marvellous and novel was pedestrian, infantile almost. No wonder the reciprocators had humoured her, but never really taken her seriously. How long had she known that, deep down? It was as if she had been overawed at her own ability to have discovered fire or invented the wheel. Not only was fire harnessed but millions of different permutations of the wheel were in operation. These things took their place in the background of people's everyday lives, as did the Universal Link, leaving her adrift, trying to blend together the developments that had happened here with where she had been before she had come through the veil, trying to educate herself, filling in as many gaps as she could. It was hardly worth commenting on here.

Perhaps this had been Cecilia's problem. Labouring under the impression that her efforts were worthy of note. What had she been here, other than a spare part, a hanger on? What was her purpose, actually? She had been originally employed by Albus Dumbledore to find a way of defeating the overarching evil that existed, Lord Voldemort but here, Albus

Dumbledore _was_ the overarching evil. In a fashion she had been allowed a small role in

Helping on the espionage side of things, and when she had attempted theoretical integration between magic and science she had been knocked down, continually and consistently, embarrassing both herself and Remus, turning the Reciprocators against her and generally causing her own isolation. Perhaps too because she had assumed that the reciprocators were just the same people as they had been, or expected them to be in the case of those who were now alive and had not made a distinction.

Sirius, though unburdened with the deaths of his friends and the blame lying with him was still the same jokey, have-a-laugh, take-nothing-seriously wizard she had known, who had spied on her, flirted with her and had her help him right at the end. Before, he had broken into her house to take back "Mysterious Mythology", or at least try to, and the same wizard, playing by his own rules, existed here. A measure of bravado, of front, still remained. But his attitude to Cecilia was entirely indifferent, blocking her efforts at every turn for he believed, and regularly openly said, that she didn't belong. Caelius had taken many knocks for her but, of course, he knew the truth of her being there, didn't he? Indifference then gave way to him utterly despising her after the showdown at Aberforth's wake. For that case, she had been glad she had been sent to Durmstrang.

Then there was that piece of work Henrietta Edwards, a former friend, helping her by providing her information about what she knew about science just so as to trip her up, eventually, and embarrass her, when the time was right for her own professional advancement, befriending her only to let her fall and make her a fool. How was it that it took a moonless magical ship voyage for that to become so clear? And the beauty of the witch's cunning was that she had done it to her so many times without Cecilia's knowledge.

Looking back it was easy to see how the woman, encouraging her in her research that she had done knowing how unpopular it was with the rest of the reciprocators, and when she had challenged her at Aberforth's wake Henrietta had simply stood by wordlessly, as if she had agreed with the rest of the witches and wizards all along. Slippery, devious, scheming, conniving…treacherous. A born politician. The only difference between Henrietta Edwards and Caelius Lupin was that the woman was merely interested in only herself, interested only in people if it meant she ascended the status ladder in life, thinking nothing at all of the people she had used to get from rung to rung. At least Caelius's intentions came from dogged duty, however much she disagreed with them.

Oh, there were times when she had been genuine enough, but turn on the fakeness button and she was manipulation witchified. For a long time Cecilia had considered her a friend, she had socialised with her, confided in her. It had been Petunia Black who had come to be a strong ally and a genuine friend who had actually listened to Cecilia after the incident at Grimmauld Place with the reciprocators, Henrietta and Freya.

She always had, there when she had cause to offload when work was getting on top of her, laugh about the funny things Septimus did or said as he was growing up, shared a laugh and a joke, talked about Dudley and Darren Dursley, the schools they were going to, Dudley's increasingly outrageous haircuts and fashions – hardly appropriate for a ministry of magic accountant, so thought his mother.

A genuine friend. Someone who, though closely connected to the reciprocators through Regulus, although neither were reciprocators themselves, listened with genuine alarm and offered her sympathy when she related the whole sorry affair. Petunia had made Cecilia feel much better about herself, making her realise that she was not being mean-spirited when she felt resentment towards Henrietta for her treatment of her, and that it showed more about Henrietta Edwards's character than it did about Cecilia's

"I know," Petunia had said, making Cecilia a cup of black tea, topping up on several other teas Petunia had made for her the evening after the Afternoon of Horror. "I used to think she was all right too. But, you know Sissy, she was so _boring_!" Cecilia had giggled, in the way she had done with friends long gone. "When I had heard Caelius had proposed her as a reciprocator I wondered how, I'm being serious she's so dense." Petunia then walked across her own living room doing a perfect impression of Henrietta's strut. "She went to Hedgewards with us, she was in my house. She would want to walk to lessons with me." Petunia had sipped her tea. "You know, I ended up making excuses not to go with her, and, you know, I chose to be late lots of times rather have to wait for her and walk with her to lessons."

"Seems like she spent her time learning how to be manipulative," Cecilia had mused aloud, "working out how to play people to get her to where she needed to be." Petunia had nodded a little and had clapped Cecilia her on the back. "She's really got under your skin, hasn't she? Look, there's no love lost between us," she had added when the cloud of shame had wiped itself all over Cecilia's face. "If you need a vent, you're more than welcome, anytime, mate. We all need to rant from time to time. I don't know how my sister stands her, but Lily was always much more kind hearted and patient than me."

Another time, in the months just before Aberforth's death, and when she was beginning to suspect that Henrietta was not all she seemed, at her last visit to Grimmauld Place in a fruitless search for Severus Snape Henrietta had commented about her own freedom to do what she wanted without responsibilities, saying she was ever grateful for not needing so desperately to be defined by a man. Nothing directly attacking Cecilia of course, but that was how Henrietta Edwards operated – she had had nearly two years to contemplate that. Lily had said she had been married for a long time and Henrietta had replied that that was different: she was a Reciprocator in her own right. A broadside to Cecilia. Everyone knew that she was the outsider, none more so than Cecilia herself. She had brought this up with Petunia months later.

"Do you know what I call her, when I realise she's being like this?" Petunia had smiled, after soothing her with tea and cake. "I call her a conjurist," Cecilia had darted her a knife-sharp look. "She's not being anti non-wizard," Petunia had justified, sipping her own tea, "she's being anti- people who stand in her way. She sees you as a threat, Cecilia."

"A threat?" Cecilia had been genuinely shocked. "But I'm not! How do I threaten her?"

"By being a non-wizard, and doing the work that she was not chosen for," Petunia had confided, lowering her voice and smiling, knowing she was sharing a non-too-well-kept secret. "She has no brains for what you do; she couldn't do the research you've done. She wonders what you're going to do in the future that will threaten her and she's taking steps to knock you down. She's a bully, Cecilia, always has been. She's doing what women do when they feel threatened. It's non-traceable, like gossip and oh, hasn't she had all her life to perfect the art of manipulation and intrigue! The wizards probably don't even realise what's going on, and the witches? Well, if they do notice then they're just putting up with her, and if they don't it's because she's being Henrietta."

"Mrs Voldemort, more like!" Cecilia had uttered, dully. Petunia had laughed. "Yes, like that terrible wizard in your book, Henrietta. What will Mrs V do next, I wonder?"

Mrs V. And that's what Cecilia had called her, in her mind, when Henrietta had been her scheming, conniving self. Now, as she looked out into the darkness she pictured the woman's beautiful, striking features twisted with years of cunning and deviousness, shaking her head. You can't hurt me, Mrs V. You want information? Well you're not having it. What I have here belongs to Caelius – he deserves it, after all. I don't work with the reciprocators any more, I won't again. Stick that up your wand and make a spell from it!

She wished she had managed to get a message back to Petunia while she had been at Durmstrang, telling her how much she had bolstered Cecilia when she had been at her lowest. In some respects she should probably have taken a step back years ago, when the work had come to its natural end. Perhaps if she had had something of her own in this world she might have felt more secure, but even what she had produced, "The Story that Never Was", hadn't been entirely independent of it all.

In a lot of ways she had a lot to thank Caelius for. Being away from the reciprocators and into an academic research environment, though a magical one, had probably saved Cecilia from cracking up. If only she had insisted Septimus had come with her, she could have educated him at Durmstrang, despite its extreme view on wizards and non-wizards. But the over-riding factor which had stayed her in insisting was that Septimus would have been away from all he knew, those things which, at eight, he needed more than her: a stable school-life, social structure, his friends. Remus had agreed that this should happen, probably the most civil a conversation they had had since the incident after Aberforth's funeral.

It had been a very civil parting after nearly ten years of marriage. Remus had kissed her stiffly on the cheek before Caelius had floo'd her to the Brocken, in the Harz Mountains. From there, the entrance to Durmstrang via the Rosstrappe, at the top of the cliff. It was a port key, but you stepped out over the edge of the cliff before putting your foot not in mid-air and then tumbling to your death but onto a dark basalt floor in the foundations of the school itself. Considering the Institute was at the top of an island mountain it was the highest-up basement Cecilia knew and, when Caelius described the dim, dank area as the "Welcome Room" she had wondered how Spartan and chilling the rest of the place must be.

She had very few things to give to the Welcome Elf who had come to meet them, merely her private, personal belongings and things which meant she could carry out her everyday work for which she had been humiliatingly sent away.

She got to her feet, trying to calm her emotions. Looking ahead, Cecilia focused on the thinnest line of orange on the horizon, the wind on her face now Cecilia wondered whether it had been the sharpness of the air on her face which had caused tears to spring to her eyes as the smooth passage of the ship headed in the direction of the light. She suspected not. Though there was no-one around she didn't want to express her ever-growing feelings of inadequacies and ill-treatment that had preceded her stay at Durmstrang and she stared harder at the meagre light source.

Even now she wondered how she could have borne the shame-inducing situation of her role. And she had accepted it, ovine-like, allowing herself to be treated that way, as if she were the only person at fault…that the blame lay with her and her alone. She had had a long time to think since then and her departure now was her belated response to her incarceration. But she couldn't say that she hadn't gained something from being around such highly focused wizards. Perfecting her own investigations, she had verbalised and crystallised her own thoughts, musings and hypotheses given unlimited time. The Universal Link, connecting both science and magic had been reduced to a hobby of an unpopular non-wizard woman back in Britain by the reciprocators, but she had never been dismissed, even by wizards with such extreme views, or at least, her inner scientist corrected, producing evidence which supported the cause of extreme views.

Science can never be context-free and it usually depends on the people funding the research as to the questions which are asked, so the most advantageous results can be obtained. Those using the results can then say that they were backed by evidence from scientific research, giving them more credit. But you can hardly blame the researchers themselves, especially as most of the research teachers at Durmstrang made Tabitha Penwright look positively normal in her approach to things.

If she had one overarching regret however, it was that she hadn't spent enough time talking to Tabitha. She seemed the most honest of the lot, speaking her mind freely and judging no-one. That was what the Durmstrangers had been like – wholly accepting her in terms of academic pursuit, no question of emotion or personal manipulation. Nothing was ever personal with them, nor Tabitha. It was no surprise that she had ended it with Severus though; when you saw someone once every six months you could hardly call that a relationship.

The orange line was now getting wider and, in the fore-ground Cecilia thought she could see another patch of orange in the foreground. Sodium-orange light pollution? Perhaps they were nearing land. The ship seemed to know where it was going. From the position of the sun, which she had tracked the previous day they seemed to be heading in the direction of the UK. Her heart quickened.

Britain. Where, when the Ministry caught up with her she would have a lot of explaining to do. But if her plan came to pass then she, Septimus and Remus could live in peace, away from it all.

Her mind drifted back to Tabitha again, but then focused sharply on Snape. Even he, who had seemed so genuine had, she could see, looking back, been humouring her from the start. He had made no contact with her in the nearly two years she had been away despite frequent missives on her part. Clearly he had grown tired of her doggedness. Or had been utterly disgusted at her behaviour at the wake. Or been repulsed by her embarrassing show of emotions when last they had met.

Cecilia shook her head trying to shake away the memories of it all as if they were an Etch-a-Sketch picture. She fixed again her gaze on the horizon, scanning it for further evidence of their location. It did her no good either to dwell on the past, nor the past in the Old Place either, a comfort though it might be when she caught herself still half-think of herself as Mrs Frobisher, the widow of Tim Frobisher who here had (she had been pathetic enough to research and discover) emigrated fro Edgeford to Canada twenty years ago and was now a ski-ing instructor in the Canadian Rockies. The widow of Remus Lupin put to death for his disability. The employee of Albus Dumbledore in a place where Voldemort terrorised both muggle and wizard, where she had been of some _use_!

Well, now was the time that she would forget the other dimension where she had come from, and the bad times in the last decade in this one too. She knew this was the time Cecilia had already begun on the path which led away from scientific and magical research and on to her life with her family.

She had burned her research notes; she had made peace with her husband. She had defied

the ministry by leaving Durmstrang. So as to _live_ here rather than exist. Her heart glowed.

She could be mum to Septimus again. He was alive here, her beloved son, an eleven year old who needed his mother. Whatever had possessed her to leave him? How could she ever have?

She forced a block down in her mind. No. No regrets. No grudges or bitterness. The past had often been described as a foreign country by wordsmiths far more skilled and poetic than she. And, like her exodus from the tiny Noweigan chip of land just East of the mainland in the Norweigian north Atlantic, it was also difficult to leave. She looked about her again as the proto light of dawn filtered into vision. Land loomed ahead, the streetlights glowing brighter and welcoming. Cecilia smiled and thought of her son again. Forget the guilt of being absent for two years she would be there for him for the rest of her life now, once she set foot on the land ahead of her.

And she could support, guide, love, respect Remus too, be his wife properly. Her heart rose as she thought about that night in June. He had arrived up unexpectedly to see her at Durmstrang, borne his inner fears and aspirations for their marriage as she had hers. He had agreed to put aside all that had happened with the reciprocators and defend her, as his wife, as he had done already in her absence. Cecilia had promised to abandon all research work concerning science and magic, forget and never mention the Other Place and do something else when she eventually got back to Britain alongside being full time mum at home to Septimus.

And then they had sworn to love one another for the rest of their lives, breathing the freshness of life back into their corpse of a marriage which had, until that night, been clinging to mere threads of vitality. Cecilia hoped that Remus would not be too shocked or annoyed at seeing her back sooner than he expected. She could not be happier.

To say it had been life-changing was not overstating the fact. They had made up when Cecilia thought that their marriage was over bar the paperwork. And when he had touched her hand it was as if she had been transported back to Sirius's spare room in the Other Grimmauld Place, at Christmas, when he had attacked her. The spark of familiarity but the newness too. That night, that glorious June night, they had been together, made love, as she had always hoped they would, even better than at the start of their relationship here, in this world. Two people but with one heart, one mind, one soul, one purpose.

No. Cecilia shook her head again as unmistakably the grey line of land showed up on the horizon. No more for her science and magic for her, no more other world, with its Death Eaters, Voldemort, Albus Dumbledore, near-broken Snape and wretched Harry. Goodbye "Universal Link" and endless, thankless research. No more teaching, no more Hogwarts. Or Hedgewards either for that matter. She had chosen happy over right and that was something she needed to keep reminding herself about whenever the drug of academia began to torment her soul. Hello future, I'll take you. Whatever you hold for Mrs Lupin.

Soothing though these thoughts were it was what she was going to do practically when she got back to Caelius's cottage in the Lake District that needed to occupy her thoughts, Cecilia knew. The land loomed nearer and she put the inconvenient thought to one side as she tried to work out where she was and, more importantly, what would happen when the ship reached it. Overhead the sails flapped as the land grew closer. The ship slowed, bereft of the best of the breeze. It would take some time to reach the coast. She sat back down cross-legged on the deck as dawn now admitted it was there and shone its light into the east.

Her thoughts reverted back to what she would do, what they would do, when she reached the cottage. Caelius had told her that both Remus and Septimus were now living with him. Cecilia bristled at the thought of his intrusion. It had been his decision to send her away, admittedly as a result of her behaviour, but his action nonetheless. He had kept her from her son for almost two years, something she knew for which she could never forgive him for she could never replace the time she had lost with Septimus.

But Cecilia also knew trying to live holding onto the bitterness would be of little use at all. She had to think practically, pragmatically and sensibly. Only then would she win through. Cecilia smiled to herself as she reminded herself what her first sensible action would be.

An hour later, her exit far less graceful than her embarkation, Cecilia scrambled down the side of the ship and getting wet. The ship had not berthed in a dock or quay but at the foot of the Scarborough cliffs, just down the coast from the jet that she remembered finding when she was a teenager on a geography field trip and she half-expected to see marching up and down the shore flinging his arms dramatically at the cliffs.

So that was what the ship had done. She had been told by one of the women researchers that the ship knew where you wanted to be and Cecilia was certainly in England, admittedly on the wrong coast. But that was easily resolved.

With the past dripping from her like the briny sea through which she had just swum to reach land Cecilia thought of the bright future that awaited her family. Caelius wouldn't like it but she really didn't care any more. It had been a long time since they were all together in Edgeford but it was something which was long overdue.


	14. The Ministry

The chamber, deep in the Ministry of Magic was filling up quickly. It had always been the policy of the Ministry to insist department and cabinet meetings were held as dawn broke on whichever day that the meeting was scheduled, pleasant in the winter, when the sun lazily began to shine its rays half-heartedly across the country after eight in the morning. Tougher in the summer, like this morning, when the wizards had to attend, bleary-eyed at five in the morning.

This morning was no exception. A bright August morning where a wizard would have to be blind to miss the brilliant sunshine seeping in behind even the densest of curtains and most were arriving resigned to the fact that the memorandum in their hearths late the previous evening was real and they would have to be getting up pretty early the following morning.

Getting up was not the issue for Caelius. He knew he shouldn't really have been up all night, allowing the light to filter its way in through the darkness. He had had a few hours' sleep once Septimus had gone to bed but, how could he have given in to the luxury of relaxation when there was just so much to do? Hedgewards…the Conjurist attacks…increasing in their frequency and intensity…the disappearance of both Tabitha Penwright and, more worryingly (or more accountably), Cecilia Frobisher…Septimus and his impending departure to secondary school, wherever that might be…the Reciprocators…Sirius and his beloved brother Remus –

"…Caelius?" A bulky wizard by the name of Rodolphus Lestrange stood next to him, his expression a mixture of anticipation and concern. He had worked with Rodolphus for so many years it was hard to determine and he knew that the question would have been worth hearing, if only for its small talk. He smiled at Rodolphus – how great, he had often thought, to be someone like him, a wizard so laid back he was almost horizontal, and to whom those gravest concerns that Caelius harboured would have been inconsequential.

"Morning, Rod," Caelius sighed, feeling a little guilty that he hadn't been paying his old friend as much attention. "Are you OK?" he added, hoping Rodolphus would take pity on him and repeat what Caelius suspected to be a question his friend might have asked him.

"Kay, you really don't seem yourself these days." Rodolphus turned him a little by the shoulder away from the ever-growing throng, his voice one of concern. "How are you keeping?"

"Well, it had been difficult," Caelius admitted, nodding a little. He had known Rodolphus since their time together at Hedgewards. They had begun with enmity between them – how could they not, coming from Slytherin and Gryffindor? – but had become friends as they had progressed into their NEWT years and into the Ministry. Rod was dependable, responsible and laid back, naturally talented in civil service. The Ministry for Magic had sought him out for employment and he was probably one of their greatest assets. As head for the Department of Magical law-enforcement Caelius had been in frequent contact with Rodolphus Lestrange regarding conjurist activity.

"We had our busiest night yet," Rodolphus continued, his arm around Caelius's shoulder as they moved round to the assembling wizards. Twenty for use of illegal spells, five for belligerent actions towards non-wizards and another two for illegally harbouring half-breeds." Caelius nodded slowly, trying not to flinch at the gnarled barb of a term for vampires, werewolves and the like, an ancient torment to him. He looked down to Rod's hand as he pressed the scrolls into Caelius's.

"If you wish to interview any of them then you're more than welcome. And Bellatrix says you're more than welcome at our house for dinner tonight. And Septimus too. I expect he and Rufus would get om." Caelius smiled at his friend's attempts to entice him home, even mentioning the possibility of company for Septimus – Rufus was Rodolphus and Bellatrix's son, the same age as his nephew.

Just as the thoughts of relaxing in good company, with the near-manic enthusiasm of Rodolphus's wife talking about sporting events, competitions, engagement of those less-than-sporty wizards and witches into team-building games, and so on, guilty thoughts of his brother lying there so ill in hospital…Septimus being minded by the Potters; so much work still to do…the worrying absence of both Tabitha Penwright and Cecilia Lupin…these wizards here to convince how dangerous this situation… Caelius looked around as the wizards began to take their seats and an air of anticipation growing as the formalities of greeting and small talk had been observed.

"Floo me later?" Rodolphus clapped Caelius on the back and he nodded in his friend's direction in confirmation. As one of the most senior wizards there, with so many cabinet and ministerial wizards there Caelius was satisfied to see that the time he had been willing on to arrive the night before had come. He also knew what was at stake – if he did not share the multi-faceted situation with those present he would fail to convey the gravity of the situation. Even then, to reveal some of the sensitive pieces of information, would not be enough for some of them and Caelius also knew he risked belittling the situation if he did not convey the message succinctly.

Nearly everyone was there now, arranged around two tables, one for the ministrial cabinet and the other for their departmental deputies. Lucius Malfoy, of the Hovel Office; Arthur Weasley, deputy to Mick Mullen in the Department of Established Magical Artefacts…this department's opposite, so to speak, was represented this morning, by the Unspeakable Simon Picklestree, a thin, dark-haired wizard, quick thinking but with an air about him that made Caelius think that should anyone cough too loudly or slam a door he would jump out of his skin. Unspeakable they were, as their unofficial name suggested, not because they were terrible, but because of their vow not to discuss their developments. As a result a section of the ministry had evolved who were deep in thought, were terrified by sudden loud noises and consequently not on this planet.

No sign of Gregor, though. Not that Caelius was surprised. That was the role that every Unspeakable coveted though few attained. It took a special kind of wizard to be a Mysteriour, a special kind of mind, one which twisted away from regular logic, even from the call for sustenance or for sleep. As a result the Mysteriours had to adhere to a strict code of practice which made them take proper rests and eat properly, the latter of which Gregor took full advantage in the Ministerial canteen.

He watched as Dave Mullen, Mick's twin; Hubert Hughes of Magical Transport and the Floo Network; Finn McCoal of the Department of Magical Creatures and Hestor Horsefeather of Horticulture Research. It was understood that, should a matter be highly pressing, meetings could be missed. He could hardly remember a meeting that Gregor had attended but, as the Head of Department of Mysteries, he could be forgiven for thinking that he had already missed the meeting ("4th August was a week last Thursday, surely?") or it was yet to come. Certainly at this particular moment, with things as sensitive as they were, Caelius would much prefer Gregor to be dong what he was skilled to do.

"I will first of all thank you all for making the effort to attend this morning." As the doors closed to the chamber, Caelius rose and addressed the wizards. "It is indeed appreciated that you give up your time at such a time as this – " He saw the glazing of eyes as several of the more junior wizards switched off, but he persevered, " – unprecedented, troubling days which, with our intervention, co-operation and professional collective endeavour we, and we alone, are in the unique position to abate."

"You see, we are under threat," he continued bluntly, "both from without and within. I would bring your attention to the agenda which should have arrived by Floo at your homes this morning." At three that morning. It had been a last-minute decision to add several of the items but, as events were moving at such a rate it had been unavoidable.

"I would like to call the Right Honourable Lucius Malfoy to update us on the situation regarding the conjurists." Caelius looked at Malfoy, arcing his arm in the wizard's direction. Wordlessly, Lucius Malfoy swept to his feet, engaging the room charismatically as he smiled a little.

"My dear colleagues…compatriots…friends..." Malfoy began to move to where Caelius had been standing and nodded towards him deferentially. "I have the responsibility of security in this land and it is my grave duty to inform you that the situation is as severe as our esteemed colleague has outlined. We know that the movement known as conjurists are well-established and organised, permeating each stratum of society, differentiated not by age nor gender."

Around the table Lucius Malfoy began to pace and he outlined the cases that had been investigated by Aurors, the arrests and generally, the intelligence that had been procured. All of which, Caelius noticed, as Malfoy's message permeated even the sleepiest of mind, that no matter what the department, conjurists and their illegal activity was very much to do with them.

"It is understood," Caelius concluded, "that my predecessor's brother has some connection to the conjurists in Britain. We have sure evidence of European influences to the coven meetings that have been infiltrated so far, both in literature distributed at the meetings and by evidence given by those conjurists arrested." Caelius glanced at Mick Mullen, head of the Auror department, magical law enforcement. With no need for further encouragement Mullen got to his feet and towered at nearly seven feet, naturally he would have people know, over the wizards in his locale.

"Albus Dumbledore," he said simply. "Since his arrest and subsequent acquittal of crimes against humanity in 1997 his character has remained unblemished. But this has not prevented repeated conspiracy theories surfacing over the years connecting him, and his lover Grindelwald with everything from global warming to poor range and technical difficulties in the floo network." Hubert Hughes looked down and shuffled his feet as eyes pierced the air momentarily in his direction.

"Which is why we must be careful not to band around his name in conjunction with the conjurists in Britain, so connected is he to those wizards of a similar bent on the continent. Unsubstantiatedly connected, I hasten to add."

"What evidence do we have?" Malfoy smiled attentively towards Mick, who nodded at the legitimacy of the question on a delicate topic that he hoped would soon be at a close.

"Testimonies. Evidence given by those who have been arrested for inflammatory attacks on non-wizards, those arrested for distributing material designed to incite violence and extreme behaviour towards non-wizards. As you know, we cannot legislate against thought – no government can – which is why covens in themselves are not illegal and cannot be made so. But outcomes decided at such meetings, as anywhere in the country…pubs…sports matches…homes, and so forth, can be. And there had been an increase in old potion-making, Auld Magic in spirit, which I believe Hestor is investigating?"

He looked at the head of horticultural research who nodded her head fervently. A sight, little witch Hestor was introverted but resolutely dedicated to her job and she had spent night after night issuing writ after writ to chase every lawbreaker that crossed her department.

"And there is the surge in the keeping of half-breed magical creatures but this, of course, is illegal. Finn?" Mick gestured towards the head of the department, who had recently been having trouble accommodating the growing number of half-breed magical creatures that had been seized. In fact, he gestured upwards for, taller even than he, at just over nine feet tall loomed loftier even than Mick.

The half-giant smiled broadly, splitting his face coarsely in two as his eyes roamed over the other ministers, no less inconsequential in position but far more in stature. His position within the ministry was one which Caelius could not think of anyone better placed: born to a witch who had married a giant from the McCoal clan from Galloway Hills he was educated, magical and enough of a half-breed himself to appear as impartial as he actually was. Borne out by the statistics Caelius was more than confident in his assertion that Finn McCoal was the most successful leader the department had had, not least because the last three had been eaten by the very patients at St. Mungo's Vetinary Hospital that they were supposed to be supervising.

In his deep Lowland gravelly voice, which boomed around the council chamber and threatened to take the elf-made tiles of the wall Finn McCoal detailed how he and his two deputies had removed the half-breeds from wizards which had so far been discovered and which awaited repatriation to Europe. Hope and confidence were in his tone and Caelius had no reason to doubt the sentiment.

"Thank you Finn," concluded Caelius, standing back up as the half-giant thudded down onto the minute chair which was still, amazingly, holding his weight. As he glanced around the chamber he noticed the appearance of another wizard, another Mysteriour, probably sent in place of Gregor. He made a mental note to approach the thin, bushy-haired wizard whom he had long suspected of having some elf heritage somewhere along his genetic line.

"Which comes to the work of Tabitha Penwright. Mr. Picklestree, may we call on you for your report?" From the table of deputies, for whom no head had, explainably, attended, the task now fell to the junior Unspeakable. Nervously, the wizard arose and, after fifteen minutes of stuttering pre-amble, after which those who had arrived awake to the meeting might well have been wanting to go to sleep, Simon turned the conversation to Tabitha.

"…Tab…that is to say, Miss Penwright, er –"

"Miss Penwright, yes," prompted Caelius.

"Miss P..p..penwright…yes…well, we know she went behind the veil during her work on advanced commonality…" he gestured to a thick notebook on his desk, "…her research work says…that is to say, indicates – " the wizard gulped, beads of sweat appearing on his bright forehead. "Th…th…that was nearly three months ago, and – "

"You've not heard from her yet," guessed Caelius, attempting to put the lad out of his misery. "And – "

"Might I ask…? Mrs Lupin?" Lucius Malfoy's silky voice interrupted Caelius's flow and he stopped, smiling politely at him.

"Indeed. As you will see on the agenda – " many of the wizards and witches turned to it analytically, this case is my next point." Caelius stood up again and began to pace before them. Whispers that had arisen died away as the most controversial connection to the government was about to be spoken about. "As you know Mrs Lupin is now carrying out ministerial orders in her hidden location." Hoping the economy of truth hadn't been conveyed, he added, "and has provided us with essential information, some of which has informed our policies of late."

"So she continues to meddle in our affairs?" a voice rang out. Caelius searched the wizards until the outraged face of the one who had spoken stood out. Its owner, Hestor, scowled long and hard. Yes, mused Caelius, it was no wonder. Cecilia, just before he had sent her away following Aberforth's death, had made herself unpopular with the head of Horticultural Research by requesting samples of restricted plants and failing to do anything with them, allowing them to either be used up or carelessly discarding them at Hedgewards for them to be disposed of by the house imps.

"Indeed, Hestor. Her work informs our very work. In fact were I not to have placed her, what we know of the conjurist movement would be sketchy at the very least." The witch's face remained resolutely displeased at the mention of Cecilia's name and Caelius deftly changed the subject.

"Should we not take the advantage? More lives would be lost, more injured people, both non-wizards and wizards, for there are counter-attacks. Which is why I have proposed the change in rota for the Auror department to cover any lapse in duty times. You will notice, Mick, that each time period is now covered, with a shorter lunch break, but the time added on at the end of the day. Further, I have called for support from the Reciprocators for both defence and mediation support and I have assigned one to every shift." Mick Mullen was carefully studying the plan, a little wrinkle on his wide brow appearing as he read. "It is a decision which needs ratification, of course. I will call for the vote at the end of the meeting. And on a second matter, brought by the Prime Minister of the Other Chamber." That was the non-wizard prime minister, his counterpart in the government who was, at this very moment having a similar conversation with his cabinet. "To bring under regulation the Reciprocator movement."

The pause was momentary and skilfully timed before Caelius moved onto the subject of practicalities of the Reciprocator role in before highlighting the rapidly-emerging danger to security within the Ministry from the use of pensieves for communication and the measures that were to be put in place by Hubert Hughes to prevent any breaches, hacking or otherwise opportunistic misuse of the Network.. The poor wizard had looked quite pale, Caelius thought to himself as the safety of the new devices was quickly aired.

"And it is by such means that the conjurists are choosing to communicate. Mr. Hughes and his team are doing their utmost to trace illicit pensieve messages connected to conjurists but, as you can understand, the rate is slow, especially considering the upsurge in attacks on non-wizards. So, arise council," Caelius concluded commandingly, uttering the words needed to summon the members to the vote. From the chamber ceiling quills, ink and paper fluttered ethereally down. The wizards took theirs and scanned the papers. The assistance of the Reciprocators with the Aurors in an auxiliary role and the regulation in terms of Auror assistance for the Reciprocators and regulation for said organisation when carrying out the work of the government.

The debate was short and, as the sun shone through the blinds, indicating the gloriousness of the summer' day that was to be upon them (the members got the day off if they were summoned early for a meeting). Tomorrow the departments would discuss the implications of the issued discussed on their own departments and strategies would be drawn up.

But for now, what concerned Caelius was the vote. He didn't have long to wait and his resisting the urge to pace was duly rewarded. Almost universal acceptance for both proposals.


	15. Septimus and Severus

88888888

It had been fun, stopping with Sam. He always had fun at Grimmauld Place and the night before had been no exception. Mrs Potter had fussed over him, her cloak of red-auburn hair bouncing behind her as she called up the stairs for them both to come down for supper and Mr Potter had regaled them with stories of Hedgewards with Sam chipping in, about ghosts and teachers, mischievous behaviour and lessons.

"Of course, it'll be a little different next year," Sam had commented, tucking into a slice of pork pie and adding it to his well topped-up plate and flicking his hair from his eyes, its hue the same as his mothers. "I don't know what subjects your uncle has in mind, but non-wizards are going to have difficulty with practical magic."

"I think the plan is that the teachers will teach both, in the same classroom, so non-wizards understand," Mrs Potter had replied, offering salad and quiche to Septimus. He'd shaken his head – he'd had plenty and whoever was cooking at Grimmauld Place at any one time always catered for an army – and smiled, half-hoping that some pudding might arrive if he waited a little longer. At his mother's comment Sam looked at her agog.

"Never!" He shook his head, and both his parents looked at him sharply. "What I mean is, what's the point? What will non-wizards get out of it? And it'll hold the wizards back."

"Skilful teachers can manage," Mr Potter had replied, magicking away the dinner plates before his second son had a chance to reach for a third slice of Melton Mowbray's finest. It had been replaced, much to Septimus's happiness, with a trifle and jelly and ice cream. Just as Sam was about to dish out a helping the door sprang open and Kreacher, Sirius Black's house elf, bustled in with an armful of washing, nodded towards Mr and Mrs Potter, before scanning the table for crockery. "That, or Professor Snape will adjust the curriculum a little for all to learn. That's the overall aim, anyway."

"You mean Severus," Sam had replied, serving out four bowls of jelly as Kreacher tutted at the lack of washing up before nodding at Septimus and bustling back out again.

"_Professor__Snape_," his father had corrected. "You're still at Hedgewards, son."

"I mean – " Sam had taken a bite of jelly, ignoring Mr Potter's admonishment, " – how will – hmhm – " he had put down his spoon and swallowed, "how will everyone cope?"

"They'll manage," Mrs Potter had said, brushing aside Sam's amateur attempts at educational policy. "This year is just a start. A few non-wizards, those who want to study. Perhaps those who have an eye on a job in the combined government and know that understanding of wizards will benefit them. Or children who have wizard friends."

"Or those that just don't know." All three Potters had looked at Septimus, and he'd blushed and looked down at the table when he'd realised he'd spoken out. When no-one had spoken after a few moments Septimus looked at Mrs Potter. Her beautiful face, always smiling, always full of kindness and concern. So different to his own mum in so many ways, so…proper motherly, in the way Septimus had always thought mums to be like.

"I don't know," he'd repeated, feeling that he'd counted the cherries enough times on his portion of delicious-looking trifle to be bold enough to explain. "I'm not very good at magic. And I didn't really ever want to go to Hedgewards, even though Dad wanted me to."

Thinking about this part of the conversation, the part which burned brightest, like the midday sun that was now invading the windows of Uncle Kay's cottage, Septimus realised that, once he'd said it out loud he'd felt a lot better about things. Upset though he was that his father was so very poorly on each occasion he had visited the hospital with Caelius he'd felt a hollow dull ache in his stomach which had made him feel sick but now felt much better since the moment he'd told the Potters the night before.

"Your Dad wants you to do what you want to do," Mrs Potter had said, and she'd smiled at Septimus. "He knew that you felt that you should go to Hedgewards, but he doesn't mind if you don't." The view of Helvellyn loomed bright and bold in the frame of the window as he remembered feeling so happy that Sam's mum had said that. His magic wasn't that good and he knew from Sam that wizards who weren't that good were bullied by those who were. He'd said as much in reply, then added, "but now I know that some non-wizards are going then – "

"You'll be fine, Septimus," Sam had said, nudging him sharply on the arm as he scooped some ice-cream into his bowl. "I'll be there, as mum said. If you get any trouble you can always tell me. I'll sort them out. And, I'll teach you some more magic, if you like," he added quickly, before either of his parents had had the chance to reply. "You're getting pretty good."

"I'd like to get my own wand though." Walking towards the stairs of the cottage Septimus wondered whether his friend Julian would be in – it would be a great day for grubbing outside, that was, exploring outside and hunting for creepy crawlies and the like. Foot on the first step Septimus began to ascend. Mr and Mrs Potter had nodded and smiled, as had Sam. None had commented and, Septimus knew, there was a reason for that. Mum.

As pudding got eaten and Sam had joked with his dad at possible names for new subjects for both wizards and non-wizards to study at Hedgewards Septimus thought about his lack of wand. And now, upstairs and approaching his bedroom to find his boots and jacket, Septimus recalled what he had thought.

Everyone knew his mum had refused to buy him a wand. She was missing, and dad was in hospital, and he felt a bit bad about thinking these thoughts again when neither parents were in a position to talk to, but he did feel annoyed about it. Even children from wizard families at his old school in Edgeford, who'd shown not one iota of magical talent had a wand. But not him.

Mum had explained, and he knew that Dad had told the reciprocators that it had been at her insistence. No-one knew he had overheard but one night, when he had slept over at Grimmauld Place, just after mum had left for Durmstrang, he had told them, when Septimus had not been able to sleep and he'd been eavesdropping on the meeting.

It sounded like something mum would have come up with. That he wasn't to be pushed in one direction or the other, neither to be a wizard nor a non-wizard. He should find his own path, and a wand would come in time if that was what skill he chose to develop. That was mum all over. To her, magic was a skill to be developed, to choose, or not. But why couldn't he have had a wand, just like the others?

Pulling on his boots, one which he had found under his bed, the other behind his wardrobe (how had it got there?) he felt into his pocket for some floo powder. Not many non-wizards used the floo network, but his friend Julian's family did, mainly because it was the only way he and Julian could communicate. Caelius didn't have a phone and there was no mobile phone signal out here so it the Scotts had keenly allowed a link to be established just for him.

He was lucky in so many ways, Septimus knew. He and Sam were close, like family and, since moving out to live with Uncle Kay with his dad when his mum had gone to Durmstrang, he had made a few friends at his new primary school. But he could do magic though only a little and, for such a small primary school, only three dozen children in total, that had won him interest, friendship and a little animosity.

Leaving a quick message for Julian that he was going to "Hell and back" (i.e. Helvellyn) as the local saying went and he knew that if his friend was around he would come to find him. Probably armed with sandwiches, a flask, a bug net, two pots and magnifier, books and notebook. Julian Scott was nothing if unprepared. And, once he had been shopping to Diagonalley with Uncle Kay at the end of the holidays, he would have his new wand to try out, taking Sam's advice to practice with it outside, preferably miles away from anyone who might get angry at having their windows blown in.

Taking the stairs two by two Septimus came to a halt at the bottom. It was the sight of the curtains, very old and with a completely unfashionable pattern on them. The last time he remembered how ugly they were was when his mum had been drawing them, at their last Christmas all together there, with his dad and Caelius too, nearly four years before.

Mum.

Sitting on the bottom step he looked at the window which had the misfortune to have these horrible things hanging either side of it. If only you were here, mum. Then I could explain that I want a wand because I really want to try out being a wizard. Not because I want to be a spoiled child, or defy you.

"I do hope you'll come home soon."

After a few minutes the sunlight drew his attention away from the young to-be wizard's happiest memories, of mum and dad sitting hand in hand on the equally disgusting wood-framed settee, listening to wizard radio and laughing at the late evening comedy shown being broadcast that Christmas night. He remembered all the details too, of his father holding his mum against him as she rested her naked feet on the wooden handrail. It wasn't like his mum to be so carefree though Septimus knew she could relax when she wanted to and he recalled Cecilia noticing him halfway down the stairs, calling him over before hugging her seven year old son close and telling him that they were going to have a lovely day out over the mountains to walk of that day's dinner before kissing Septimus on the cheek and shooing him upstairs.

They'd gone to see Caelius every Christmas for as long as Septimus could remember. His mum had no family and they knew that they would always get a good welcome from Remus's brother, away from the hustle and bustle of Edgeford town. He knew how much his mum loved the open air around the cottage and it occurred to Septimus as he looked at the living room of his uncle's cottage, how similar he was to his mum in that he loved the outdoors, books and exploring, just like her. Mrs Potter might have been what Septimus expected a mum to be like, but she wasn't _his_ mum.

_His_ mum. Cecilia Lupin. Mum, who would be in a world of her own, a happy place, where she was working something out, or thinking about a problem. His mum who, when he was with her, he was the only thing in her world, who had taught her so many things, about science, nature, space, natural history. Who told him stories when he was little, of a Harry Potter who had to be brave to fight an evil wizard, stories which he loved and where he couldn't' wait until the next night to find out some more. Who he knew, no matter what anyone said, wouldn't have been apart from him if she had a choice. That's why there was a part of him which felt a little glimmer of hope that, if she was missing, she might be on her way back to him.

Being so close to nature, so different to the outdoors he had grown up with in Edgeford, meant that he didn't mind isolation. Septimus didn't recall much about his parents arguing although he remembered once his father shouting at his mum, accusing her of preferring to be on her own than with him, and of filling Septimus's head with what he called her "nonsense". Septimus's dad so rarely shouted that it had drawn his attention. But he remembered thinking that it was strange that his dad didn't understand that it was good to be on your own. It was when the most interesting thoughts could come to the surface of the mind.

Getting to his feet Septimus approached the hearth to check the floo network to see if his message had been received at the Scott family home. Nothing. Perhaps they were out. If they were he knew Julian would come, fully laden, out to find him. Turning right, Septimus let himself into the sparsely-furnished kitchen, pacing quickly over the floor before pushing down on the handle of the back door.

Closing it carefully (he had been the cause of the glass breaking more times than he could count when gusts of wind had taken the door out of his grip) he put across the latch, walked down the ancient wooden steps before treading softly onto the thin grass that carpeted the foreground of the cottage's land. The sun beat down on his face and Septimus smiled. Then frowned. How could he be so fortunate in some ways, and unfortunate in others? If only his dad was better, and his mum was there. He missed them so very much.

But then, living here, people who he was with cared for him, and he had friends. Not much of a compensation for his absent parents, but it could be much worse, he knew. Sam was like a brother to him, a situation which had crossed his mind briefly when, the previous night, he'd whisked Septimus back upstairs for another game of draughts (when the pieces got jumped the square became an empty void and sucked it in; when one got crowned, a jewel-encrusted gold crown adorned the lucky wooden squat cylinder). He'd insisted that he should take Septimus back to the cottage that morning too, after breakfast, waiting with him far longer than necessary, talking to him about Hedgewards and how brave both his Dad and his Mum were. Perhaps because he was so used to pleasing himself as to how he spent his time Septimus felt the situation a little strange and he strongly suspected that Mrs Potter had insisted Sam stay.

Stepping out over the hardy peaty ground Septimus extended the notion past Sam. He knew Harry Potter, of course, not only from his mother's stories but because he had met the wizard several times. His father had been friends with Harry's father, and Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew at school and he had often gone with his father back to the Grim Old Place when his mother had been away teaching, much to his mother's subsequent annoyance.

The Grim Old Place. That's what mum called it, as a joke originally, because she felt it was no place for Septimus. But his father felt differently. Remus, Septimus knew, felt that he should get as much experience of wizard life as he could, arguing with his mother that, were Septimus to be in a position to choose his future, as she so often insisted should be his right path, he needed to know what he was choosing between. It was ironic that it was at Grimmauld Place that Septimus, nearly four years before, at Christmas, last remembered his parents being happy together.

It was getting dark when Septimus and Julian made their way back from the summit of this famous mountain. Hours had passed like minutes from the moment his best friend ran, fully laden, panting and perspiring, up the scree and shouting at the top of his voice to Septimus.

Between them they fished, collected innumerate invertebrates (duly recorded and catalogued with no better than an unsharpened Keswick 2B), looked at the trees, scampered up many, ate quantities of sandwiches provided by Julian's mum, supped crystal clear spring water…all in all indulged in a most brilliant day.

Hunger growling, Septimus pulled on the kitchen door handle, leaning back slightly as he watched Julian stroll over the grass towards home. He was one reason why he would have liked not to go to Hedgewards, to go to the Penrith secondary school that Julian was going to go to. Septimus would miss his best friend.

"Uncle Kay?" Septimus leaned around the stair-banister and shouted upstairs in the hope that his uncle would be home that night. Though Uncle Caelius thought he wasn't much company for his nephew Septimus would be the first to deny it. He liked spending time with his uncle, he liked hearing about things that went on in the Government building.

No. He wasn't in. Perhaps after a bath and some food he might come home. Otherwise it was Radio Cumbria or Midshipman Quinn in Showell Styles's compendium of sea stories. Just as he had put a foot on the bottom stair a crackle in the hearth drew his attention.

"Uncle Kay?" No. No-one was arriving by floo, by the look of it. Septimus hurried towards the grate to see who was appearing, but no lurid green face crackled back expectantly. Hope fading replaced by thoughts of cheese on toast Septimus began to walk back towards the stairs. But a crackle and then a snap drew the boy's attention again. And then a voice sounded out from the hearth.

It stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun. Septimus, from his frozen position half way up the stairs, returned to the chimney and looked at it again. The voice was clear and true, it had spoken English with a foreign accent and it had sounded like a woman. But on inspection of the grate there was no image there.

"Hello?" He looked around the blackened hearth for a clue to the utterer. And then the hearth sparked unexpectedly again. The image of a woman, her hair scraped back into a bun, middle aged and thin, high cheekbones and pale eyes, stared back at Septimus.

"Hello?" he asked again, but then the boy realised he was talking to a floo recording, a message left in the grate for its intended recipient. Strange. Stored messages only usually replayed when the person they were for was present and the woman had clearly mentioned Caelius.

"Following your last communication, Caelius Lupin," the woman spoke deliberately and slowly, as if reading English from paper and wished to make sure her words were understood, the words echoing around the cottage's living room, "there has still, as yet, been no communication from your agent Cecilia Lupin. Nor have I found where she might have gone. I have no evidence that so-called conjurists are involved. I am most concerned about her disappearance and assure you, Mr Lupin, that I will do what I can to discover her whereabouts – " The words broke off and the woman turned quickly to look behind her before fading.

Septimus sat down on the floor and stared into the blackness again. Who was that? Someone who knew his mother, clearly, and was concerned about her being missing. The woman practically spat the word "conjurists". And what did she mean by _agent_ Cecilia Frobisher?

He leaned forward and reached for the floo powder in the holder to the left of the still-unilluminated hearth – the woman hadn't returned to repeat again her strange message – and threw in a handful.

"Grimmauld Place, second room, second floor." The location specified which grate in which his head would appear, in this case Sam's temporary room at Grimmauld Place, where he had stopped the night before.

"Hello?" The familiar reply to sparks now crackling in a hearth indicated to Septimus that he was connected to the grate and he looked around, through the greenish haze, at the furniture, chair, table, wizard chess and wizard draughts boards, still in the same place, abandoned on the floor by the room. A figure came into view. Sam. He'd be able to help, he could talk to Sam. But instead his brother Harry's face smiled expectantly at him.

"Septimus! Are you looking for Sam? He's out, I'm afraid, with Crystallia." There was a pause. When Septimus didn't say his goodbyes, the pause became ever so slightly awkward and Harry added, "is there anything I can help you with?"

"Have you seen my Uncle?" Septimus's voice had become quavery and weak, and he hoped that he wasn't going to cry.

"He's not with you? Caelius?" Septimus shook his head. "Look, I'll come over," said Harry, "sit back, I'll be there in a moment." Septimus shuffled back, just in time too as the wizard exploded onto the hearthrug seconds after he'd vacated it.

"Did you have fun last night?" Harry tried the safer course of conversation, considering the lad looked as if he was about to burst into tears. He liked Septimus and, like his mum, felt sorry for him, being left so often by Caelius, and having no family to be with.

The small talk continued when Sam had come down from his bath and Harry had made him shepherd's pie and vegetables and, while Septimus was grateful that he had some company and someone to make him tea, he'd rather had his mind set on cheese on toast.

"I've floo'd Caelius, and he will be home later, " said Harry, joining Septimus at the kitchen table with the dinner. "I'll stay with you until he gets here." Septimus nodded between mouthfuls. He was grateful for company, but he'd have much preferred to talk to Sam. Harry was a grown-up, and grown-ups just weren't as much fun.

"Did you watch the game the other night? The semi-final?" It took Septimus a few moments to realise that Harry was talking about quidditch – the football season didn't start until September – and shook his head. "Of course," Harry said conversationally, "you follow the footy, don't you? I remember someone I went to Hedgewards with supported a London team. Chelsea, I think, or it could have been Arsenal."

"It's Aston Villa for me," said Septimus, "but that's only because I thought it sounded like ice cream when I was little!"

"Are you ok now?" Harry asked, as he magicked away the crockery when Septimus had finished his blancmange pudding. Septimus had relayed the message to Harry and asked what the woman might have meant by "agent" when talking about his mum.

"Was she a spy?" he pressed.

"I don't know, Septimus. You'd be better off asking your uncle. But what I do know is that Cecilia wouldn't do anything unless it was for you, in the long run."

"So you don't think she's bad, then?" Harry sighed. Was he ever like that, eleven, with a black-and-white view of the world?

"I think your mother does what she does for your sake. And wherever she is right now, she's trying to do it for you. I'm not saying her decisions have been popular, but she's your mum, and nothing will take that away from you."

"Harry," said Septimus, still sitting on the kitchen chair, his eyes wide and earnest. "I'm scared. I'm scared about mum being lost, and I'm scared about dad being in hospital. I'm not supposed to know that he's been bitten by a vampire, but I do, and I know that no-one has found a cure for it yet. And I miss them, Freya too." He turned away, not meaning to have said all that he'd done. When he looked back at Harry the wizard was smiling.

"'Course you do, they're your family. Look, Septimus, I can't tell you that all your worries will go away, because no-one can promise that. But have faith. Your mum'll come back to you, that's what mothers do. Well, that's what mine does!" He laughed, hoping to lighten the mood. When Septimus failed to smile Harry swallowed, a little awkwardly. He'd only popped into Grimmauld Place for a moment on his way home. He'd left a message for Hermione, but he knew she'd still be annoyed with him. He certainly hadn't banked on counselling a distraught child.

"And as for your dad, we've got the best mind working on it. You know Professor Snape, don't you?" Septimus nodded. That terror-inducing figure, looking high and with a chilling voice. "If he can't help your dad, no-one can. No, look, what I meant was – " Harry added, seeing Septimus's horrified face.

"He's got the most brilliant mind on the planet. He's probably even now in the potions classroom at Hedgewards working on an antidote."

Half an hour, a chat about the ministry, Hedgewards and three games of wizard chess later Harry Potter shooed the reluctant Septimus Lupin upstairs and off to bed. He switched on the radio and waited for Caelius to return.

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Severus Snape, Headmaster of Hedgewards School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and joint head of the Reciprocator movement with Caelius Lupin was not in fact in the potions classroom. He had been working on a vampire antidote, but the brew would take days to distil to obtain the complicated and low-yield compound that he suspected would be required.

Not that he had to rush – nothing could be done until Remus Lupin regained consciousness. And who knew when that would be? A nurse-healer from St. Mungo's, Snape knew, would floo him the moment any change occurred to Lupin's condition. Until then the effort in making the blend would be wasted.

Not that he didn't care, but there were more pressing matters to attend to, such as, in less than a month's time he might be knee deep in non-wizards without a viable curriculum and adequate provision for them.

Would it work? Were it up to him Snape knew he would never have proposed it, not least presided over the execution of admission of non-wizards to Hedgewards. The notion to his mind appear preposterous. But that was politics, he knew. However it wasn't politicians who had to wrestle with wizard-non-wizard teaching strategies, accommodation, pedagogy and – he raised his eyebrows – training of staff. It was the last point that was giving him the most horror, contemplating training the school's professors, some of whom had difficulty in even grasping the idea that there were actually such people as non-wizards.

As to whether it would work or not, that was an irrelevant question. It had to. He just hoped that the experiment into childrens' education didn't end badly, for the children at any rate.

Turning to the grate he cast his wand at it and instantly came into view Septimus Lupin's bedroom. A book lay open on the covers as the boy cuddled up under his sheets and blanket. It had to work for him, and not only the non-wizard Hedgewards policy. He had seen him on many a night, reading, or playing wizard playing-card solitare, laughing as the suits argued with one another over the rules, smile at his uncle as he relayed a story about the government's post imps or just simply amusing himself with the radio, trying to tune it into a popular station with music that appealed to him before cursing and singing along to a 1960s soul track.

He owed Cecilia, that's why he kept an eye on her son. His view had been obscured by an incoming message for, presumably, Caelius, that evening but Snape had seen the lad go out, and then back in again hours later. What changes that he was contemplating right now would affect him? Which would affect any of the children?

Perhaps he should never have cut off Cecilia like he did. Had he remained in contact he could have reassured her that what she was doing was worthwhile in the end, even though she had been forced and blackmailed into her position at Durmstrang. Perhaps Septimus would not be so anxious. Perhaps, even, Remus might not have been coerced by Sirius into the dangerous reciprocator role that they had undertaken. Poor Lupin, trying to impress. That, or not caring for his safety.

And of course there was Caelius, a gentle, introverted soul, a consummate politician. Snape knew too that his spell would be working, that Cecilia's diary, hidden by her own hand in plain sight on blank paper would begin to reveal itself and with it, her innermost private thoughts, feelings, joys and despairs. How apt that it had begun to do so now when she was in danger. It could almost have been planned.

Poor woman. Deluded, yes. But brilliant. How could anyone believe, unless so naïve or self-important, that she was here to save the world? But, of course, Caelius could not risk that, not when his plans were unfolding so well. Snape shook his head as he looked again at the timetabling nightmare that was before him, in ink-black and parchment. What had she been sent to Durmstrang for anyway, other than to collect information for her brother-in-law to further his espionage and develop his political credibility? And was he, Severus Snape, any less to blame for allowing it to happen, for the ultimate good of an organisation he had long since lost faith in, thanks to the current incumbents?

Cecilia, despite her personality, and subsequent clashes with the Reciprocators, did not deserve to be treated as she had been, ultimately crushed from within by the destructive elements that existed within the Reciprocator movement so that she ended up hating herself for being, well, Cecilia. At least, he knew, her biggest tormentor was no more. _How_ Severus Snape knew that was another matter entirely.

He had had little choice over the course of action that Caelius took but how he treated her subsequently he did have a choice over. She had come from a world unlike this one, terrorised and at war. Of course it was hard to let go of that mentality when people around her here did not understand, when the world was so unlike the one she had left. For now, at least, until the conjurists got their way, particularly Aberforth's brother. He glanced at the ex-headmaster, snoozing in his frame. Well, it was four in the morning, and one could hardly expect even former headmasters to be awake all night as well as all day. Cecilia. Would she ever forgive him?

Snape's gaze slid in the direction of the most recent imported conjurist pamphlet. Auld magic. Wize art. It was clever, too clever. It was unlikely that she would live long enough, once she knew if they had her yet, for forgiveness to even cross her mind.

Pushing aside the pamphlet, and the timetable too Snape paced his office. In his own way Caelius was as much of a traitor to them all as they perceived Cecilia to be. Aberforth knew it which is why both he and Caelius both succeeded as head of the movement jointly. It was a decision that still, more than two years on, sat bitterly with Caelius Lupin. Aberforth knew, as Snape did, that the politician within Septimus's Uncle Kay would sell them all to evil if it incited popularity.

He closed the floo. Septimus was safe, for now. Caelius had returned, relieving Harry of reluctant babysitter and left again, with a security spell on the perimeter of the cottage. While Caelius was his uncle he didn't necessarily have the aptitude and common sense for caring for a child, leaving him to fend for himself a little too often for Snape's liking.

What would it be like once things began to move in quite the opposite direction? If they all had to work much harder for the sake of the Ministry, as Caelius was increasingly proposing? James of course, would be first in line to attack Caelius Lupin; he knew James Potter distrusted Caelius as much as Snape did. But did Potter have enough in him to be an effective replacement were he to stage the mutiny that he nursed.

And it wasn't as if the Reciprocators didn't know what was going on with the lad, rather they ignored it as things were going well for them. They tried to help Septimus to ease their consciences. But it would help them all if someone would only be willing to mend the rift to between them and Cecilia. Far better to have Septimus here if his mother had not been discovered before the start of term. At least that might atone a little for his treatment of her. But such charity didn't exist in any of their characters, Snape observed of the Reciprocators. Bar one, who had been missing far too long for Snape's liking, but necessarily so.

Tabitha. Dear Tabitha. At the thought of her vital mission he turned the image of his former girlfriend over in his mind. Where was she, at the moment? Not dead, of that he was certain. But…not here. He had loved her, in his own way, not romantic, all-consuming passion but love that was deep all the same. Admiration of a beautiful mind, of someone who was whole when she worked, when she was with the mysteries. Like a key in the lock. Another piece of the puzzle. And now, crucially…gone.

And then there was Harry. It had been a gamble, Snape had to admit, leaving the documents, journals and books with him, especially considering the risks he had taken in obtaining them when Cecilia Lupin thought she had burned them. They had been blank too and it had taken intricate magic to turn them into a tool that would save her. Another gamble had been that Harry was the one who would be able to reveal their well-hidden secrets. Harry was the one, of that Snape was certain.

But all this would come to pass, in time. People would play their part and it would come together. Gellert Grindelwald was not the only one to boast infinite patience.

Cecilia, where are you? And do you know you've been treated so cruelly?

Banishing emotion again as the sun began to illuminate the room, Snape sat at his desk and began the unenviable task of drafting what he would say at the staff meeting in five hours' time.


	16. The Long Walk

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The road over limestone hills stretched out weaving like wool through a tapestry. A glorious day and Cecilia Frobisher was in no hurry. She knew it would take her several days to cross the width of Northern England to Cumbria. That was, if she were to walk and walk with no so stopping.

Mrs Frobisher. There was a large part of her that still thought of Cecilia who thought herself as her former married name. She had used it as a form of defence when she had been sent to that isolated, rocky prison also known as Durmstrang Institute, addressing herself in this manner when she was trying to compose her thoughts.

She had sneaked into a chain hotel by stealing the uniform of a cleaner, liberating a key from an unoccupied room and a gloriously comfortable night in comparative luxury, having used the bathroom and room service facilities. Cecilia had nearly been caught too, the next morning but had been on her knees groping for a banknote that she had spied by the bed leg and had been mistaken for cleaning up.

A close shave there led Cecilia out onto the fore-moorland of Ugthorpe before following the footpaths in the direction of Westerdale on the coast-to-coast route, a place she and Septimus had visited when he had been seven to see a quidditch tournament. The terrain was rough going but Cecilia knew that the chances of her being intercepted by the Mnistry were far fewer in places such as this. She also knew that, once she had descended the sudden steep slope of the Western Yorkshire Moors, descending into the Yorkshire village of Osmotherly where the landscape flattened quickly.

Tough going thought the day had been thoughts of Septimus and her own resilience, having traipsed the Lake District's mighty hills and mountains when she had felt particularly low.

Her pace slowed over the next few days and thoughts of Scarborough hotel's comparative luxury dwelt in Cecilia's mind when she entered a supermarket at closing time and managed to liberate that days' bread and chicken from the trolleys destined for the recycling. She had then spent the night in a greenhouse belonging to a house just outside Northallerton, and spent the subsequent few days, because of the inclement weather, between the local swimming pool for means of hygiene, the library and the aforementioned supermarket was relieved of a few of its sale garments in exchange for her own.

It was necessary, Ceciia thought guiltily, as she pulled on cheap jeans and a men's t-shirt that was miles too big for her. How else would I survive and get to Septimus without the Ministry knowing where I am. It wasn't a case which her conscience wholly bought and Cecilia made up her mind to reimburse people and businesses when she could.

Almost a week after landing at Scarborough Cecilia had reached the Yorkshire Dales, having spent an entertaining afternoon around the castle at Richmond where she found herself lumped in with a coach party and had been given a small piece of cake and tea at the end of the tour, welcome indeed, if unexpected, she had chanced upon a holiday home which was apparently vacant. Vacant that was until she sneaked in through the back door by means of a little, well, not breaking as such – twisting and unscrewing – and entering.

Now, crossing the Dales, the beautiful "God's own country" so-christened by Yorkshire folk, tears sprang to her eyes for shame, shame that she had to abuse some poor innocent person's house, the guilt still on her mind despite washing up everything scrupulously and putting on the bedclothes. Shame, too, that she was trying to convince herself hat her actions were entirely for the sake of Septimus.

She would pay back, when she could, she swore it. But it didn't stop her thinking how devastated the owner would be to know that their house had been entered even if the intruder had been tidy. How could she justify it to herself when it was just her pride she was serving, when she could just contact Caelius or the Ministry, even if they would just take her away.

Now, having followed the river Swalen, in two-day-old jeans and raggedy t-shirt Cecilia sat on a tarn, or what would be a tarn were she in Cumbria, and surveyed the gorgeous, rolling countryside. She had slept out on the dale the night before, in a leeward shelter close to Keld. She wasn't far from Caelius's cottage – sometimes she had trouble thinking that it belonged to Remus's brother, and despite having spent only a short time living with Remus in her old world, continued to think of it as belonging to the now-younger Lupin brother.

As she took in the andscape again Cecilia ran over the plan in her head again. She estimated that she would be back with Septimus before the end of the month, and there was no way she was prepared to see him looking like that. Further disrespect, theft and deception to come. But she would, would see those she could right, for Septimus's sake.

"For your sake, son," Cecilia said aloud as she lay on her back, her short hair flattening as she lay back with her hands interlocked under her head. "For you, little Tim." But not for Remus, though. She closed her eyes, allowing the warmth of the sun to radiate around her, to warm her, to help her relax. To dry the tears that, unbidden, she was huffing in deep spbs from her body, her eyes stinging and her nose bemucused.

When had it been when she realised that she should never have been with the Remus that lived in this reality? Cecilia wiped her face with her sleeve as the anaesthesia of damp emotion. Why had she never seen it? Marry in haste, or so they said, repent at leisure? Well she had had plenty of time to do that. It wasn't that she didn't love, or at least care him. He was what she had been striving for for her Remus in the Old Place after all. But she loved the version of Remus that he was not, the version who was in the other dimension, the other past and nothing could be done for it.

And from there it had become even more complicated. Cecilia had got pregnant with Septimus possibly even before they were married. Indeed, it was barely nine months until she was in labour with him…so very quick. And what had she done with her time? Whiled what she had spare away writing down everything she remembered from the old place, into a stupid book. Pranced around as if she had the answers to everything, with arrogant omniscience. She had believed Aberforth when he had said it would be cathartic: it had been entirely the opposite for it had caused her to dwell even more on the past that wasn't, like a pin in her mind. His prediction even that her residual memory would eventually fade appeared to be wholly incorrect too.

She opened her eyes to catch sight of a flicker, a whisper of a ghost of a thing pass before her, as if taken unawares by her sudden move. Another zipped past furiously. Would he even want to see her, her son? Would he forgive her for leaving? Or would he understand, and just be her lovely, loving, thoughtful, bright, wonderful son?

Batting her hand around as another bright fleeting annoying insect darted close to her ear. Wiping the latter of her tears on the back of her hand Cecilia looked to the west. She was still

Going to take days to get back to Rem – _the_cottage. It was still a good fifty miles from here and she was desperate not to be found out before she got to see Septimus, at least. Cecilia needed to be patient, she knew, something she wasn't very good at.

A growl of an engine brought Cecilia back to the present. She leaned forward as a bus, groaning with the effort of the hill, struggled to the summit, the driver crunching the gears as he sought to correct the misjudged gear changes he had made lower down the hill. She would walk, then, if she must. Fifty miles, and she would be back within a few days. She could steal comfort where she could, though to be honest, Cecilia silently admitted, the weather was such that sleeping outdoors and eating the small bilberries and wild strawberries that she had found would not be such a hardship.

Her place here, in this version of reality, should have been ideal. Here there was little conflict between wizards and non-wizards, co-operation and openness were not so much watchwords but ways of life. Which made the recent, and sudden, rising in magical fundamentalism very worrying, to those here. But she had dreamed it all, hadn't she, according to anyone here wishing to judge her work published just over a decade ago. Even the floo powder, adapted as it had been in the other place and used, brought with her in her pocket, with great effect by Cecilia herself, sparingly however, had been deemed suspicious by the ministry. What hadn't come to that? So much of what she did – _who__she__was_ – had been subject to hostile scrutiny.

Perhaps she should have punched the lot of them when she had emerged from behind the veil, Cecilia mused to herself as she recalled the moment she had seen the dark furnishings that were the Department of Mysteries and the other unfortunate minister wholly recognisable as the Death Eater Lucius Malfoy who, unbeknownst to her, was the Right Honourable Lord Sir Lucius Malfoy, BA. He hadn't deserved he punch she had landed on his right cheek, cracking against his bone, though Cecilia had felt that he had done.

More amazing too than the humble, Lucius Malfoy as a pillar of society and not a right-wing bone in his body, here Tom Riddle was nothing more than a very pleasant old man working with the Ministry also. He had died just before Aberforth Dumbledore and she had attended his funeral. As the silence returned to her hilltop pause Cecilia thought about the terror and horror in the old world.

Oh, it had all been going so well...how had it come to this, though, such poor treatment now. How many people really cared about her whereabouts? Who did she want to, really? Only one. Only Septimus. She was going to be with Septimus, where she should have been all along. A part of her was angry with Caelius for telling her to go but also annoyed with herself for being cowed and bossed around by him. She had the strength this time, with her husband and her son. She and Remus would live a happy life, she would work to do anything to support her family, take a step back from Hedgewards and magic and science.

Sitting up Cecilia stared into the cloudless sky. Why was it that she remembered the old place so well? Parts of it were not from her mind as often as daily – surely by now she would have forgotten a little at least? The cottage here was in appearance just what she remembered leaving, in great haste, taken by Severus Snape to a place of so-called safety.

Her one regret, pricking her conscience as she got to her feet, glorying in the hot midday sunshine, was her confrontation with Freya. She should have been the adult, after all, and she had taken her in because she had been orphaned by what turned out to be one of the first conjurist attacks, Cecilia had later found out. She should never have put herself into such a situation. Cecilia smiled to herself, then frowned as a couple more little flies flitted past her head.

She wished these tiny winged things would go away. Cecilia quickened her pace as she followed the contours of the hill's plateau. She was determined to be humble, to accept she had been wrong. But no more than that, a small portion of her mind shouted into her fore-mind. With the beautiful scenery of the Lake District still to come and her mind fixed on Septimus again.

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More pamphlets. The wizard in charge of organising this month's coven looked around. It was getting dusk, despite the fact it was still rather late. He had been to a meeting with other conjurists from around the country with Albus Dumbledore no less. And in a few moments the local conjurists would be descending, talking, demanding, speaking and listening. Even listening to him when he recounted how fantastic it felt standing in the presence of such a powerful, influential wizard. He had, like the others, collected a bundle of pamphlets.

Dumbledore was calling for more direct action, something that several of the wizards who would shortly be attending, would be very pleased to hear. And, of course, he had the Untraceable spell, given to him by Albus himself, which destroyed temporarily, the ability not trace the wand. The man stroked his thin face with his fingers thoughtfully. At last, he had something valuable to compensate for all those times that he had been overlooked, part of the coven furniture.

"How fares our plan?" Dumbledore had started with that opening line to the conjurist ambassadors and the wizard looked around at the empty hillock just North of Skipton. He would use it too. He had spoken about their task, unique and vital. He spoke about solidarity and ideological union. The great Dumbledore had also spoken about the pensieves too, how they could be adapted to also be untraceable.

"All the memories are available still, hidden deep and accessable only with this pass spell – " he'd transferred it " – and stored, along with those from the afterworld, in the Prime Pensieve." What was_that_ again? The wizard had to admit his mind had been wandering by that point.

"All of the spells transferred here are secure," Dumbledore had qualified, slowly and clearly, conveying patience and calm. The ambassadors had felt at ease too.

The wizard looked up just as a train of wizards were proceeding up the hill. All was open to interpretation too. The evening would be fruitful, true to the cause. And entertaining.

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Memories. Another point of view should be mentioned here. Here…where memories had dimensions, where time meant nothing. Nothing too were those needs dependent on time, sleep, hunger…

Tabitha Penwright would not have even begun to guess how long she had been behind the veil, even if she felt compelled to. The memories hummed, as if tuning up, vibrating as they shifted position, changed shape, dissolved and remade connections, at random.

She felt qualified enough to justify the last conjecture. From her, well, her life's work of this particular mystery, she was yet to find any pattern in their connections. Not time (as the outside world would have it), people, place, events…none of these factors made a difference to their unions.

To day Tabitha felt at home behind the veil was almost certainly true. To say it _was_ her home was probably closer to the truth. The memories were her family, she felt as connected to them as if she were one herself. Not one person in the world knew as much about the memories behind the veil as she did, not one person could understand as she did. Even the remarkable Severus Snape had his limits.

Dipping her head into a cloud Tabitha spied some lovely lunch on a table in someone's memory. Clearly they'd remembered a lovely feast, and quite a bit of detail too. Sandwiches, with garnish, tea, fruitcake. So often Tabitha came across a blur on the table, or in someone's hand, where the detail of the meal had been lost. She stepped inside and relieved the plate of a half sandwich. While she felt no hunger Tabitha still had to eat, and rest and sleep too. Oh, the tales she could tell about _dormus__interruptus_!

Tabitha had done what she was supposed to do now, and she had probably spent enough time enjoying herself with the memories. But to destroy it?

Could she do it? Between bites as she sat at the table, Tabitha thought back to Snape. He had been angry that Caelius had sent her, but she didn't mind, she knew that she would have done it no matter who had asked her. For it was the mystery of mysteries, it was her life's work. There was nothing more important, more significant, to her or any Mysteriour than to understand the inner workings beyond the veil. There was no question that she would have gone behind it, sooner or later. Whether she would be able to go back, that was another one. Who knew? Besides, she had another task to complete while she was there.

Another bite, the rind of bacon – tasty – entered her mouth and from the corner of her eye Tabitha saw who someone she guessed was probably the original owner of the memories (memories behind the veil belonged to the Ministry. Taking another bite before discarding the crust, and diving upwards and back out Tabitha thought back to Severus again, turning her back on the bewildered behaviour of the memory-owner, presumably at their missing sandwich. She had enjoyed his company, of that there was no doubt. Whether they were a couple in the traditional sense, she didn't know. But she needed more, more of something he couldn't give her. She was part of the mysteries there…she knew that in a relationship the other person was supposed to be the most important part. But how could anyone alive be as important as the veil? It was like comparing brass to gold.

As she drifted over to investigate another group of memories Tabitha didn't notice more memories appear, and immediately integrate themselves into the infinite mass.

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"But the lad was on his own, Hermione," Harry protested, justifying his late arrival back home. "He was trying to get hold of my stupid brother. He's lost his mum, and Caelius wasn't there again. Nor were you. I didn't think you'd mind."

Ten days after holidaying in Strasbourg, enjoying the quidditch with Ron and becoming totally bemused about the blank paged books that arrived at home addressed to him Harry felt like he had never been away. Though the summer he was especially busy and Hermione working most evenings had left him with time on his hands to think. Always a dangerous idea.

"It's not our problem Harry," Hermione scolded. "Especially anything to do with Cecilia Lupin. I do feel sorry for Septimus, I really do. It was bad enough having to relieve her mental stories when it arrived in the house." Harry looked around hoping his guilt was not evident on his face.

"Speaking of the books – " Harry began to change the subject.

"Threw them out," Hermione concluded simply, returning to the housework spells, speeding up the ironing one and finishing the washing up one. At least she talked about what she got up to at work, Harry thought, recalling their earlier conversation when Hermione talked about relating back to the meeting she had been called into at the last moment.

"Otherwise I would have been home earlier."

"Otherwise you would have been even more annoyed with me," Harry added quietly.

"What was that, Harry?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking. Would you like a coffee? You need to relax a bit this evening; you spent rather a lot of time up last night." To his surprise, instead of protesting herself Hermione nodded.

"You're right. I've been working pretty hard She flopped down on the settee next to Harry, snuggling into him. Harry sighed. It was not as if he didn't have ambition. He just wanted to work to support his family. Hermione on the other hand, was the epitome of ambitious, her actions driven by performance management, other ministers, policies. Driven, to the most part, by Hermione. It was something Harry deeply admired and loved her. He just wished she wasn't so dismissive with his ideas.

"We've nearly finished the European office clear-out," Hermione said, for the fourth time that evening. When she and other ministers had discovered which ministers were conjurists and who had been involved in conjurist activity. "Even saw Draco Malfoy walk down the corridor. You know? Old Lucius's son?" Harry nodded and smiled, his eyes fixed on the television screen. We never found Henrietta though," she added in dismay. "You'd think, she'd be there. That's what her spell says about where she was. Strasbourg." Harry smiled, and hugged Hermione hard.

"The youngest President," Hermione continued.

"Henrietta?"

"No silly!" Hermione looked up to Harry and nudged him in the ribs. Harry smirked.

"She laid into Mrs Lupin a bit," Harry replied. When Hermione said nothing Harry settled down and lapsed into silence too. A very able, assertive – bordering on the aggressive – witch, with bags of confidence, such a go-getter. Hermione admired her as one of the best politicians in Europe.

"A film? Or some television?" Harry used his wand to operate the interactive satellite channel receiver as Hermione yawned.

"A bath, I think. Then a film? You fancied the Star Wars trilogy, you said."

"So I did," replied Harry, kissing Hermione on the top of her head. "I know, I'll sort dinner, you have a bath and we can watch something when you come down.

"Something's going to kick off," Hermione added as she got to her feet. Harry looked at her quizzically. "In the ministry. It feels different there."

"And if it does, it does." I'm not getting involved in a debate thought Harry. The last time he had tried to debate with Hermione in the uneasy mood she was in resulted in a tense two hours of strained conversation. And I'm not going to mention the books, even though they hadn't been Hermione's to threw away.

In the dark recesses of the pile of two-week old newspapers that had been left in his case and taken the round trip to Strasbourg with them. Later, Harry would find the books, sandwiched as they were in holiday form, balled up, bulging, and generally looking worse than they had done the day they had been delivered. Despite reading it Harry decided against sharing what he had read with Hermione.


	17. Glorious Twelfth

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It was mid-August. The high sun, though waning in its arc, was still intense and strong. A lazy day amongst lazy summer days, where the heat of the daytime was absorbed by the earth and radiated, baking the inhabitants of the country and prompting sales of ice-creams, sunglasses and electric fans.

The glorious twelfth. Or, mused the wizard, the Glorious Twelfth, or so it was to non-wizard, upper class toffs with lots of land and money and time on their hands. Not so glorious for the grouse. The wizard crossed to the higher peak of the tor. Around him, below, walkers (or rather, staggerers in the heat) made their way back to their temporary abodes, having "done" the Yorkshire Dales. Too far away to be noticed. But, just to be sure, the wizard cast a disillusionment charm.

He sat down on his haunches. It would be a long wait, he knew. The so-called Conjurists, would be here, in a few hours. But he had to be sure of what was going on, for the sake of Auld Magic, both the twisted interpretation promoted by the conjurists and the kneejerk, ignorant reaction to the former by the government. It wasn't going to be so unpleasant, waiting here. At least it wasn't raining.

The users of Auld magic, heathen magic, that of the earth, had been what the druids had originally practised, and before, the wise men in the first community in the world, who listened, or had been more attuned to, the nuances and subtleties of nature and the world. The resurgence in recent years, across Europe, and England, especially in the North, was unsurprising – who didn't want to reconnect with their past and redefine themselves? Especially when a person or community felt that their identity was threatened.

The wizard cast his eye down again. From here he could see a couple of hardy coast-to-coasters making their way backwards, towards the Cumbrian coastline, busy in their pursuit and unlikely to make a glance upwards. Not that he would be seen. _Should _be seen. To make sure, and after a brief scan of the environs, checking for an influx of Conjurists, he cast a second disillusionment charm. He inhaled, the air fresher up here than in the valley, where the summer heat pooled discomfortingly.

He thought again about the Auld magic, how it had been twisted and distorted from its true course, of mere interpretation and function. Now it was about ritual and here-say, about whether you were, not whether you could do. It was about exclusion and hierarchy, about spite and cruelty. About manipulation and mistrust. How much had it infiltrated society? How easily could it be stemmed? If only he had his link, his access, to an clear, objective mind, the only one which made sense to him. But she was missing.

And what would happen when it all started? When he started it, that night? It could be argued by some that it had already. Harry had the books. True, he didn't know what to do with them, like someone who cannot read the script in which the winning lottery numbers are written. Who would be leading the coven that night? Below him, in the haze of early evening, wizards (unquestionably wizards, dressed up to the nines in everything wizardly, so they could not possibly be mistaken for anything else) were making their way up to the tor. So he was in the right place. Quickly, wordlessly, the wizard cast a final disillusionment spell, just to be totally sure. And even then there was still a margin for doubt.

The growing group, thankfully unaware of an interloper, began to assemble, chatter and wait. It would seem that they knew one another well, clapping one another on the back, bringing superfluous things for one another, like a spare broom, a cloak, or to pore over the latest broomstick catalogue. One conversation centred around the nature of their protests, that it consisted of demanding their rights, in the traditional British manner. Another pair, women, talking about inequalities that still existed in public services and education, and that the use of pensieves was a great step forward. Pensieves? How was this to happen?

The wizard wasn't to know, not least through the witches' conversation because another conversation had caught his ear. He inched towards a third group whose discussions had become more interesting - as he listened the blood of this usually cold-headed wizard began to warm rapidly. The glorious twelfth indeed! He felt the anger surge as he listened to these young men, in their thirties perhaps, talking so casually about what they needed half breeds for.

Disgraceful behaviour! Appalling! Grotesque! Grateful that the conjurists around him could not see him clenching one fist inside another the wizard tried to settle his mind by thinking about Remus Lupin and Sirius Black in hospital. He veered off the thought as it became skewed and he puctured their faces as both vampire and werewolf respectively, being taken by one of these so-called wizards and set upon, by another half breed. For their sport! Of course it suited them that the beasts' rights were being championed.

The influx of people to the tor began to dwindle. Only one or two others joined the forty-or-so who were already there. The wizard stepped aside deftly or the last remaining two would have charged onto him. But there was no focus, no leader. The wizard sat back down again, trying to get all thoughts of the off-handed comments about half-breeds out of his mind. He would wait. And, that such a large group was already assembled, even before sundown, meant that it wouldn't be long, and Aurors from the Ministry, possibly even Reciprocators too, wouldn't be far behind.

Allowing his mind to uncharacteristically wander the wizard wondered. Where was Cecilia Lupin? It was anyone's guess. He always knew she was unpredictable but Cecilia gave a whole new dimension to unpredictability, it was as if that about which can and cannot be speculated are on the same side of the coin, Cecilia's actions were the other. Even the world's most sophisticated computer designed to interpret universal chaos would probably suffer a terminal meltdown when faced with foretelling Cecilia's imminent move. No, she would turn up, sooner or later. He pictured her face briefly, in his mind's eye, indulging himself selfishly, momentarily.

A change in the texture of the air brought the wizard back to the ever-present. The wizards had assembled themselves into a sort-of circle, ragged around the edges and still with people in bunches from their previous intercourse. As the glow in the centre became a human shape the wizard watched as their leader became clearer and clearer, until its outline bore features. Distinguishable features at that.

Damn! The wizard tried not to exclaim aloud. He owed James Potter a galleon. Albus Dumbledore raised his arms as the wizards around him watched him in fascinated awe.

The wizard had been wrong earlier. _ Now_ it starts

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Unbeknownst to the wizard, and the conjurists, and to Albus Dumbledore too (who may dearly have been interested) Cecilia rested, in lieu of sleep, within a hundred yards' walking distance from the coven. The good weather had been her friend and she had gained further ground and was closer than she had anticipated she would be gleaned from glimpses at local signs and maps along the walkways and in the holiday home which had been empty when she had chanced upon it and in which she had guiltily languished for three nights as she recovered from blisters, sunburn and exhaustion.

As she watched the sky change from indigo to ink-black and the stars prick brighter in the celestial canvas she reached to her right-hand jacket pocket which was now on the left and higher up, by her ribs, employed now as a blanket. Her hand closed over advertising leaflet a handyman that she had picked up in a chip shop in Reeth. The blank side was in fact not empty for Cecilia had written down the addresses and contact details of every one and every place she had taken advantage…clothing…food…accommodation…the most recent of which, for which she might even have been able to add the name of the owner or occupier had she not got out of the shower as quickly as she had done in the wooden lodge at Eskeleth and legged it before they had found her, she had noted duly and solemnly. She _would_ reimburse these people, she _had_ to. It was only _right_.

She focused back on the stars again, so many, so cluttered compared to the urban view she had grown up with in Edgeford and had learned from, that the true constellations seemed alien and indiscernible. But so beautiful. Cecilia waved her hand in the direction of the moving stars around her, like luminescent gnats obeying a kind of Brownian motion. So far she had avoided the attentions of the ministry, by sneaking around as if a criminal, which is what had prevented her hitch-hiking or stealing aboard a train or bus to reach the cottage sooner. She suspected these insects however, if that's what they were, may be something to do with the Ministry. A typical strategy of her brother-in-law. But no-one had found her yet. And if she could just reach the cottage, and Septimus too, she would be in a position to deflect any attack on her being where, in their opinion, she oughtn't Cecilia knew well enough that they would not allow her return to pass unchallenged.

Through the waning haze of insects which, in all likelihood, were not magical at all, she stared up towards Polaris, and then to the right. A satellite travelling at quite a rate caught her eye and she tracked it from right to left. What if she had stayed there, at Durmstrang, as they wanted, and waited there until she was recalled? As far as she knew Cecilia might have been left there for the rest of her life, how convenient her position was to the Ministry, out of the way and a foothold in otherwise closed territory.

She thought about the Institute and how threatened the Ministry was about what actually went on at Durmstrang, their perceived fascination with the Dark Arts and other controversial topics. As Cecilia got to understand their ways it began to become clear that the Institute being so isolated felt itself out of the world and could do what it liked. More, that because its location was so remote they had the seclusion in order to focus only on pure academia, to test it until it broke, and if it didn't commit it to being a fundamental magical law or theory.

All wizards there, even the students themselves (mostly student wizards with just a handful of witches) were highly focused on their work. The coolness towards one another, though could be perceived as arrogance, was a mere product of dedication to their studies or research. All this Cecilia could understand – if she had been looking for the deepest meaning of life itself, the history of magical language, sounds, vibrations, the development of new spells and have to search for right words, in right rhythm, tone and intonation to get it to work properly she would appreciate conditions that were so conducive. It was how she had been in the other world, when she had to untangle the mass of information before her that had led to the Universal Link. If only more people understood.

Despite its secretiveness and exclusivity in admissions Durmstrang did communicate and collaborate with outside world to deepen their understanding. It was a reason, even if the Ministry would be loath to admit it, that other magical institutions around the world had became research-based too, so that magical research was not confined in the four walls of Durmstrang and was actually disseminated rather than being kept hidden on a Northern Norwegian island. Examples of research that Cecilia knew the professors at Durmstrang had sought outside information about were magical ability, dark creatures' breeding cycles, magical creatures parasites, modern curses and the unique magical qualities of wizards with the redheaded gene.

Perhaps, Cecilia mused, as the satellite dipped behind a tor and out of sight, it was because she had done the Universal Link work before, in the old place, that it made sense to her that the professors should collaborate. Even when she had got used to Durmstrang, and she had been there two years, it felt like a natural way to do things. There, Cecilia could almost believe she hadn't come from another plane of reality at all.

Her active mind, kept from stillness by self-bolstering thoughts, considered her being in this world again. Her old life was easy to recall. Some parts were the same, some could be tangible, traits of people she had known before, but some completely different controlled by events in their past, circumstances and the like. Durmstrang was even like how Hedgewards used to be, Cecilia remembered, but with academic research being carried out. What they didn't seem to understand at Durmstrang was that better exam results on the entrance paper didn't mean the students were cleverer or more able.

She thought harder, trying to get past the superficial memories that she remembered in her past…the décor in Grimmauld Place…her house when it had been ransacked by, as it turned out, Sirius Black…the potions and muggle studies classrooms that she and Snape had worked with. But why…why had she been there in the first place. Cecilia closed her eye from the stars and lay quietly. A voice, far away shouted a word to her.

Voldemort…

Now we're getting somewhere…what was he like…?

And opened them again. It was hard to remember a lot of details and speculating on other time line was a waste of time, Cecilia knew. She did not specialise in metaphysics though Professor Ur at Durmstrang did, had explained that time operated differently to what humans liked to think. Humans, he had explained, like to think of time as a line, as if drawing a time line in history lessons, but it's more like a ball of string, with different buts touching at different events…

…like when you come back to things, whether accidentally or by on purpose later in life, like a hobby, or remembering an acquaintance…but when time is changed a little snip in the cord in the ball is made so the ends touch different parts of the ball…

Still didn't really understand and Professor Ur didn't ask her why she wanted to know this – no Professor at Dursmtrang did – they just did because they were a hot bed of academic minds together so talking about things was as natural as breathing. Also because it was given that the only reason why other professor would ask would be for their own areas of research. All academia was connected anyway, as far as the Durmstrang professors were concerned.

In some respects Cecilia hoped that wasn't true for she had no true academic discipline. That she had been there, supposedly, to refine the Universal Link and other themes which fed into other subjects was an ideal cover but she could tell that the application of a subject was slightly looked down upon as beneath them, and she had attracted the sympathy, though in many respects subtly, subconsciously, by manner or speech, or gait. It was a strange place, but easy to blend in for no-one would want to be the co-ordinator of an applied subject, as the Universal Link was perceived to be. Wholly accepted. Able to carry on with her own work into lycanthropy cure, even though it was vanity; accepted by strange, focused wizards who could spend days ambling around their classrooms and offices and having to be revived by house elves because they have forgotten to eat, or sleep, or sometimes, go to find the bathroom.

And yet she had spied on them for Caelius, these people who had, in their way, accepted her. Unlike the reciprocators, she added bitterly.

Would she ever be past this? Could she, and just leave it in the past once she got home and back to Septimus, and her Remus too? That what she wanted to do. No more gallivanting – she was older now, they all were. The sea had reflected back an image of this of woman looking back at her…Cecilia remembered leaning over the bowsprit into the crystal-clear water over which they had glided. She was past a milestone birthday of course, and Remus was in his fifties…

In the darkness Cecilia turned her head and fixed, in the blackness, towards the west. It would still take her about a week to get there – maybe sooner if this weather held and she wasn't caught up in rain. It would still be August, still before Septimus went to school. In the morning she would wash in still-warm spring water. She closed her eyes. Tomorrow, Hawes, and to the West.

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"I'm sorry that I left you so long." Caelius had surprised Septimus, who had put down a crumby plate on the wooden arm of settee and was waiting for the news to be over so that the second part of "Journey into Space" could recommence. Brushing the crumbs off his pyjamas Septimus made to tidy up – he knew how much Uncle Kay hated mess in the cottage.

"I'll halp you with that in a moment", Caelius had said and, much to Septimus's disappointment, turned the knob of the radio to the left until it clicked off on the ancient radio in the polished pine cabinet. "I'm glad you're up lad, I wanted to talk to you."

Lad, thought Septimus grimly. When Uncle Kay called him "lad" it usually meant he was about to tell him some bad news.

"It's about your dad, and Sirius Black," Caelius continued, not bothering to sweep the toast crumbs from the sofa cushion next to Septimus. It really must be serious, he thought, if he didn't want to tidy up before he sat down. Caelius bent his head in Septimus's direction and rested one arm on his knee.

"I'm sorry that I've had to leave you so long recently, and I'm glad to see that you've made a friend. James told me that Sam had been to see you," Caelius added when Septimus said nothing. Septimus wondered, as he always did, when his uncle filled in the silences, what Caelius wanted him to say. He found it better to listen to everything his uncle had to say before asking any questions. It saved time in the long run, especially as Uncle Kay was prone to being called back to the Ministey, or Gimmauld Place, or somewhere.

"I was glad to see that James and Lily kept a very good eye on you when you stopped there." Septimus nodded and shuffled on the chair. Come on, he willed, you mentioned Dad. As if hearing him Caelius came straight to the point.

"Both Sirius and your father are stable. Neither have got worse and it could be any day now that they come back to us. Sirius is luckier, I have to admit, because once he has woken up the healers at St. Mungo's can give him wolfsbane straight away. But Professor Snape – you know him? Yes of course you do," Caelius qualified when Septimus nodded, "has been working on a potion for your dad's condition." He got to his feet and Septimus sensed that he his uncle was becoming agitated. "He was attacked by a vampire. At the moment there is nothing that can effectively treat him. Yet."

Silence fought for supremacy and won.

"Septimus, how do you feel about Hedgewards? Only I wish you to meet with Professor Snape before you make up your mind about which school you want to go to in September. I need to talk to him in any case and I think you'll find the visit interesting." Septimus nodded. He knew that his uncle would be working on important ministry work. Snape. Septimus ran the imposing wizard's name through his mind. To everyone else, the other Reciprocators, Professor Snape was Severus Snape or Severus. It was only his uncle that called him by his surname.

That had been the previous evening. A whole day had gone by since then. Caelius had explained that he needed Septimus to stop with the Potters again. Septimus looked at the empty bed of Sam's – even though it was nearly ten-thirty and he should be asleep, he knew it would be several hours before his friend came to occupy it.

And it had been a fun day too. Sam had come over and gone exploring with Septimus when Julian had called to say him mum was making him go out shopping - boring shopping – with them instead of grubbing, as they'd planned. He'd explained to Sam what had happened and he and Septimus had gone to the tarn at the top of Helvellyn for most of the day and had looked at the abundant entomology that had been, up till that point, hiding in the scrub, around small mammal spraints and decaying bird corpses. A great time, especially when he had opened up to his older friend and told him he was worried about mum and dad.

"Is that strange?" Septimus had questioned.

"No, course not." Sam was older than Septimus by almost six years, but far younger in outlook. By contrast Septimus took things much more seriously with respect to his age.

"My friends at school are all going to Penrith. Julian too. But mum wanted me to go to the school she went to in Edgeford. Uncle Kay wants to take me to see Hedgewards though. I think he wants me to go there"

"And what do you want?" Sam had asked. Septimus had shrugged his shoulders.

"Dunno. Mum and Dad always wanted me to go to Hedgewards, when they were together, and so does Uncle Kay…well, not mum actually, I think she just wanted me to choose

And what do you want? Septimus paused and waited for the thoughts to organise themselves in his head.

"I do have a go at magic. Not much good at it though. I'm at a non-magic school now and there's only me who can do magic. But I could get by, especially if Hedgewards is taking people with no magic at all. If I can't do much, it wouldn't look so bad."

"That's a shame. I've seen your charms, your potions, you know. When you were younger."

"Dad taught me," replied Septimus, a look of sadness had crossed his face. "Changing the colour of water…type of metal, and so on. Mum taught me too. She showed me how to do chemistry, how it can be done a different way. I did the metal one by chemistry, not magic. Electrolysis, it's called. Dad had read me Grimelda, his favourite story."

"Oh," Sam had replied, surprised. "I knew non-wizards could do a lot of things, and with electricity too, of course."

"Yes, it's in Mysterious Mythology. Grimelda is like the non-wizard story called Rapunzel. Mum talked to me about how the stories could be used to tie in scientific discoveries and laws in to magic.

"Fancy being able to doing that. That's just what you'd need to be a reciprocator, you know. Knowledge of both worlds." The wind blew softly around them, relieving them of the intense heat at the top of the mountain.

"Lots of people do, don't they?" asked Septimus. Sam shook his head.

"It's one thing or the other. That's why Caelius wants a mixture of wizards and mug-… non-wizards there, to try to bridge some gaps. Like you've just said."

"Then I want to go to Hedgewards." replied Septimus firmly. "How would you feel if it was you?"

"I…I've never really given it much thought." Sam wrinkled his brow, momentarily resembling a St. Bernard dog. "If I had been used to a non-wizard school…I suppose it'll be weird if students are there who can't do magic. But that's life in the real world, isn't it? Non-wizards working with wizards. And why should they miss out on knowing what we do? They can't do magic, but…they can work at the ministry I suppose."

They had walked back to the cottage late that afternoon. There would be no sign of Caelius that night, Septimus knew, and he had been there when his uncle had arranged for him to stay the night at the Reciprocator headquarters. Sam was, as usual, starving and the minute they had gone up the steps and through the side kitchen door Septimus watched his friend root, fruitlessly, through the near-empty cupboards.

"Caelius got anything in?" he asked, frowning at the empty spaces where food might have been. Septimus frowned.

"Got some bread, some beans. We can do toast."

"Doesn't he feed you?" asked Sam, indignantly.

"He's busy," protested Septimus. When he's not at the ministry he's at Grimmauld Place, or out searching for mum, or at the hospital with Dad and Sirius. I can manage."

"Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"HQ. mum's cooking tonight for whoiever;s around. She's ace."

"But she's not expecting me till bedtime." But Sam was firm.

"Go to the fireplace. Let Caelius know you've gone early." Septimus stared for a moment. "I'll do it," Sam insisted, pointing his wand in the direction of the floo powder. It swirled into a micro-tornado in the centre of the grate. Sam put his head directly opposite the whirling mass of tiny solid particles.

"Caelius Lupin, the Ministry for Magic." Sam spoke the address. "Caelius. I'm taking Sam early back to Grimmauld Place for some tea. Just in case you were wondering where he was." Septimus felt himself blush, for he was sure there was a mild hint of sarcasm in his friend's voice. When Sam had finished the vortex ascended the chimney and would, having passed through the floo network, be waiting for his uncle in his office barely seconds after it had left. Sam then used his wand to summon a second handful of floo powder.

"Grimmauld Place!" he declared, taking Septimus's hand and pulling him into the hearth. Almost instantly they stood in the hearth of the living room. Lily Potter jerked backwards – clearly she was about to use the hearth at the same time.

"Can Septimus stay for tea?" Sam gabbled to his surprised mother. Taking a step backwards she nodded, before regaining the power of speech.

"I was just about to floo you, son. All okay, Septimus?" Septimus nodded, glancing past Lily and towards the kitchen where he knew a spread would be on. It was a Reciprocator night, after all, and they'd all want feeding.

"Of course you can have tea." Lily gestured towards the kitchen as Sam led the charge followed by a more sedate Septimus. "We've got – "

" – salad, cold meat, pork pie…we can eat on the balcony," Lily finished gesturing towards the recently-installed French doors that led onto a recently renovated balcony. The heat of the Cumbrian countryside was nothing to the focused city heat trapped between buildings in the capital's suburb."

"Better than beans on toast, eh?"

Better than beans on toast. Septimus had to admit anything he had ever had at the Reciprocator headquarters was better than beans on toast. Staring at his friend's crisply-made bed Septimus recalled what he and Sam had spoken about on the balcony as Mrs Potter pottered about in the kitchen.

"Is Hedgwards fun?" he had asked Sam, taking a bite of beef sandwich.

"Is it ever! Where do I start? Oh Sep, you're going to have great fun there!" He stood up and leaned over the small plastic outside table and clapped Septimus on the back. "You have to try out for Quidditch! And then there's the lessons – they're probably going to be slightly different if non-wizards are going to be there of course, to when I was a first year – and then there's swimming in the Black Lake – you have to watch out for the – "

" – pike?" asked Septimus, confident of swimming in open water, having done it most of his life in the tarns and pools around his uncle's cottage for as long as he could remember."

" – and worse!" chortled Sam. "Oh Septimus, you won't regret going to Hedgewards, you really won't."

After tea he and Sam went up to his room (their room, that night of course) and he brought down his compendium of board games that he had received the previous Christmas and that was already looking more than a little "well-used." A few games of exploding snap later as they sat in the living room of Grimmauld Place and halfway through a game of diopoly before Sam's father arrived, greeting Septimus and reminding his son that the Reciprcators would be arriving soon and could they go somewhere else for Septimus to beat him at the property-owning game.

Traipsing up to the library and declaring that Septimus _wouldn't_ be the one winning the game Septimus had changed the subject as the thought of the book he remembered seeing when he had last been there, and surprised by Professor Snape, appeared in his mind. He had wandered over to the shelf where it had been.

"What are you looking for, Sep? You're just delaying the inevitable, you know."

"Do you know of a book, with your brother's name on?" Septimus scanned the shelves again – he was sure it had been there, quite thickly, to the left of the window, three shelves up and close to the centre.

"The one your mum wrote?" Sam crossed to where Septimus was looking, pushing his floppy black hair out of his eyes and he stooped to where Septimus was looking.

"Suppose so."

"Hmm," Sam mused. "I haven't seen a copy for ages. And I don't remember one being here, though. Your mum wrote it before you were born," he added.

"I suppose I'm old enough to read it now," Septimus added, standing up. It wasn't there. He looked back at diopoly. Sam was right, he probably would win now.

"What?

"Last time I was here, Snape caught me holding the book…he said I would be old enough to read it when I was eleven…it was a bit strange, really…I've been able to read since I was four."

"Odd." Sam shook his head and headed back towards the board game. "That's not like him to be so cryptic. He says what he means, that man." Sam glanced back, wondering why Septimus hadn't sat back down. From the ancient desk Septimus had picked up a wooden-framed picture of the Reciprocators from a few years before. He smiled as his mother and father waved and smiled.

"I tried to get in on that picture," said Sam, pointing to the bottom-right corner. "I'm down there by mum's leg, she pushed me out. Look, you can just see my hand." Septimus peered, then smiled. A small hand flapped intermittently before jerking out of frame.

"…Arthur and Molly Weasley, you know them," Sam identified as Septimus continued to hold the picture. "Mum and Dad, of course, and your mum and dad. And Caelius, the Weasley twins, Mad-eye, Gregor, Severus Snape too…

"Who's that?" asked Septimus, pointing to a woman he had never seen before. She was thin and plain-looking, but with intense eyes staring out of the image.

"Tabitha Penwright. Snape's girlfriend, well she was," Sam clarified. "They're not going out any more. And she's not been heard of for a while." Septimus frowned, concern filling his mind.

"Nothing to worry about – she's a Mysteriour, they can wander off on their own in their department, the Department of Mysteries. They work on their own…time is different in different places depending on where they are and what they are involved in. She might be doing something that she thinks hasn't taken more than about ten minutes but to us it's a long time."

"Do you remember her?" asked Septimus, trying not to think about the metaphysical explanation his friend had just presented him with for fear his mind might explode.

"I remember her necklace. Well locket, really. It used to glow, every so often. I remember when I was little, I used to sit on mum's lap when the Reciprocators came for dinner and just stared at the locket. It was just as if it were warm, like a heart, beating away."

Sam had then finished the game, winning as had been predictable, but not by the margin that both he and Septimus had thought before his friend declaring that he was going downstairs to floo Crystallia, but wouldn't be long. Septimus had put himself to bed, deciding that if he went to sleep before Sam got back, so be it, but hoping that he wouldn't so he could ask him some more about Hedgewards.

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"Anyone at home? Hi love," James called from the hearth towards the kitchen. When he saw his wife there he kissed Lily on the cheek.

"I am," said Lily Potter, "and enjoying my couple of days off work, thank you very much," she added, poking fin at her husband jovially. "And Sam. Septimus too. He seemed half-starved, the poor lad. He had four whole sandwiches! As well as salad, sausage rolls, cheese…" She arced her hand in the direction of the well-laden table and smiled when her husband grinned in approval.

"Great, I've got to speak to Caelius, in fact – "

"No, Sam brought him here. He said there was hardly anything in at Caelius's to eat. Oh James, I do feel so sorry for him!" James Potter turned and hugged his wife.

"It's dreadful. What with both his parents…absent, and Caelius so busy, he's latchkey child. Look, I'll tell Caelius he's here, and that he can stop more often with us." Lily nodded, smiling a little and glad of her husband's approval.

Hours later, and the Reciprocators making to leave, Caelius finally arrived having missed the majority of the meeting. He explained to James that Ministry business had kept him from being at what he knew was an important meeting ("you called it!" James had replied indignantly) but he had some good news for Septimus, for them all in fact.

"I'll collect him tomorrow," said Caelius, thinking of the long night that lay ahead of him.

"After breakfast," Lily added. Caelius nodded. It was then that James and Lily both noticed that his appearance was somewhat different to what they were used, worry and concern had given way to some measure of relief.

"Although we have no idea where she is," Caelius said, knowing that his colleagues were waiting to hear what he had to tell Septimus, and them all, "Cecilia is alive. We don't know where yet, but somewhere in this country."


	18. Paths Untrodden

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"I suppose you want to know what was discussed," replied James, not responding to what Caelius had said to him. Instead he gestured towards the kitchen where the buffet that Lily had laid out was not quite completely demolished.

"Indeed. You got my floo?"

"And I brought up every point," replied James evenly, watching as his colleague tucked into the leftovers. A part of him felt sorry for Caelius – no time to eat, little time for his nephew. It wasn't his fault that Septimus had been left in his care, and there were a lot of factors to be resolved in a short space of time…Hedgewards, the Reciprocator co-ordination, the Conjurist threat…

But then, there was so much that he had brought on himself, and Caelius Lupin was standing to gain a good deal of acclaim when he pulled it all off. Words that he would dearly liked to have said James Potter swallowed down into his throat.

"We had everybody," James continued, sitting down opposite Caelius. "Benjamin Wergs, Bathsheba Braddle. Even Arabella Figg and Dedalus Diggle managed it, though I think Dedalus might have been here to talk to you personally if you had given him another fortnight of 2 to 7 shifts." Caelius chuckled.

"He did ask." Caelius forked another couple of beef slices onto his plate. "A comment about how he wouldn't be surprised if I put someone on a fortnight of graveyard shifts next. We are short-staffed, after all." Silence fell, save the crunch of Branston pickle which was accompanying a section of beef. "How are Sirius and Remus?" Caelius spoke softly, his demeanour changing as if a child asking permission from a parent. James knew that Caelius hadn't been to see either of them in almost a week. The wizard took pity on the ex-werewolf.

"Still unconscious. Which is good news, I suppose. They haven't died."

"Snape is working on a cure for Remus as well as refining the lycanthropy one for Sirius. Although I've not spoken to him of late, according to Snape it will be more efficient if he takes into consideration Sirius's genetic make-up."

"Lipstck, that sort of thing?" joked James. Caelius looked up from a hard-boiled egg and frowned. "Never mind. I was just about to give you the minutes of the meeting." He handed Caelius a piece of parchment drafted by the "top-secret" quill which, once finished its top-secret writing it exploded, stopping it being enchanted and made to rewrite the words from its previous use. He watched as Caelius glanced over the main points.

"Considering what we are up against, they've done well," he nodded, handing the minutes back to James. "I know that Mick Mullen has been pleased with their back-up. We've had more arrests and taken in almost two-dozen illegal half-breeds."

"So many. What will be done with them?"

"Deported. To their native country." He shook his head, pushing away his dozen-times-cleared plate. "It's controversial, especially considering what Conjurists are saying about the equality of half-breeds. And I'm sorry to say, their cause is growing."

"Fools! Utter fools!" James snapped. "How stupid can some wizards be? Really? Would you really think that what they are saying makes any sense at all? It's ludicrous!"

"We know that. And, as you know, governments are generally only in power to look after those who are incapable of making sensible decisions themselves. We've put the half-breed measures in place for all citizens of the country. But we have to be a little cautious. Too many regulations will only strengthen their cause, and their following too. And I have it under good authority that Albus Dumbledore himself led a coven meeting last night, somewhere on the Yorkshire Dales."

"And we are short staffed," reiterated James, shaking his head. "Even if the Ministry had implemented changes, the Combined Government would have to have it ratified by the European Parliament. And so many European countries do not seem to think that Conjurists are a problem."

"We are indeed perceived to be sceptical," concluded Caelius, getting to his feet. "And our staffing issues are unlikely to be resolved in the short-term. Not that I'm concerned about Tabitha Penwright – she was last seen in the Department of Mysteries by Gregor, although she has been absent for many months now."

"And what of Henrietta? Have you heard from her?" James followed him back into the living room, the fire crackling yellow, the default fire flame. Soon, he knew, Caelius would go, leaving Septimus there and working all night before returning in the morning. So many pots to keep on the boil Caelius, he said to his colleague silently.

"I expect she would like to know of Sirius, certainly."

"Lily owled her," replied James. "But she's not replied."

"She will if it suits her," Caelius said archly. "But I shall make a point of memoing her in any case." He approached the hearth. "Well, if there's nothing else, you can reach me in my office, James."

Hardly, thought James as he watched the head of the Reciprocator movement about to depart. Before leaving, however, he took a step back out and fixed James with an intense stare.

"I do thank you, and Lily too, for holding the fort here for so long. And my gratitude for taking in Septimus tonight. I'll collect him tomorrow, and I'll give him the news about his mother."

"I have to ask," said James, despite himself, "you're not putting yourself under to much pressure, are you? We are more than happy to have Septimus, for longer than one night if necessary, but – "

"Your concern is kind," nodded Caelius. "I do indeed have a lot on. We've had a dozen applications from non-wizards so far so it looks as if we are going ahead with the proposed changes at Hedgewards." James nodded. They knew this; it had been discussed that evening. Lily was working on the history curriculum and he had only the finishing touches to put on his report about practical adaptations to the school itself to cater for those students who would now be attending that auspicious wizarding school. "Snape is organising the staff so very soon there will be little for me to have to do on that front. We still have the pamphlets to intercept and stem somehow – Lucius Malfoy is working on that one though."

"A hard-hitting advertising campaign no doubt," said James wryly. There wasn't much that wizard did without television and newspaper advertising being involved somewhere.

Moments later and Caelius was sitting at his office desk. There were so many things for him to organise, sort out, confirm, act upon. But he was confident in what he had just said to James, that his involvement in non-wizard integration into Hedgewards would soon be far less front-line. He looked at the letters on his desk, scanning the address. Would it be a letter of complaint? For every application from a non-wizard he had received at least three calling for Caelius to be removed from office, telling him the integration policy was ludicrous or threatening to withdraw their son or daughter from the school.

Perhaps it wouldn't matter of the roll were shorter in terms of wizards? Where would these parents send their children anyway? Durmstrang was considered too elitist by many, although several would choose the Institute. And as Beauxbatons only accepted witches some parents may have to look outside Europe for their sons. That's if they carried through with their threat. Caelius sighed opened the owl. The howler reverberated round the office for a good ten minutes and was so loud Caelius thought the security wizards might have felt the need to check on him.

He looked at his desk again and tentatively opened the other letter. 13 applications now, and this one was from someone Caelius believed he knew. Septimus would be pleased. Caelius closed his eyes, grateful the feed at HQ. It couldn't take long to clear the pile on his desk and get his memos sent. And then he would be back at Grimmauld Place proposing a Hedgewards shopping trip for Septimus. Before that though, he would be able to tell his nephew that his mum was alive.

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"I don't like that cough." Stumbling to a stop Cecilia lay with her back on the grass, panting in the bright sunshine. It beat down on her face as she inhaled and exhaled stiffly. Cecilia closed her eyes.

She had covered the rest of the Yorkshire Dales with ease, stopping the next night two miles north of Sedbergh. There were no people out here, no hamlets. No roads to follow, even. She coughed again, then swallowed. It was probably the exertion, or the pollen. She rarely suffered from hayfever but then, she was rarely out in one of the hottest, brightest summers sleeping in the open. She didn't like that cough, or rather, her mother wouldn't have. When her mother was alive, when Cecilia was little, she and her sister Amy just had to breathe irregularly and they would have been dragged down to the doctors and have to sit there, knowing her mother would be demanding antibiotics the moment they were seen.

Just a swallow and a clear of throat would result in a frown and tut, followed by, "I don't like that cough." Even now Cecilia disliked visiting doctors, but it hadn't prevented her from being so protective of Septimus – Remus had joked that he might as well drag his chair near the fireplace so he could summon a healer to their son when he coughed, for he knew full well that Cecilia would be demanding he floo'd some time that night.

She coughed again, this time it had cleared her throat. For now. At least she would be back with her son soon, back to civilisation where she could buy some antihistamine, or Tunes if it turned out to be a cold.

Cecilia sat up. She was exactly where she knew she needed to be. So few skills, yet navigation was one of her best. Kneeling forward she scooped some cool, crystal-clear spring water which, many miles south, would join the Lune and become Lancaster's main river. A handful of water molecules were diverted from their path and made their way down her oesophagus. Relief, temporarily. She allowed her Evian bottle to be filled up as the stream gurgled and bubbled in the way that springs really ought to do in the middle of the summer, high up in a National Park, and tried not to think of the "natural additives" which would probably have made their way into it. She would be back to the cottage soon, and treated water.

Drinking deeply again, Cecilia sat back on her knees. She had choices to make, and not just about the direction she would go. North and she would be more isolated, at liberty, still able to spend the next twenty eight hours or so as a free woman before Caelius knew where she was. Raising her hand she wafted it around her, regardless of any annoying insects. It would take longer, she wouldn't get to the cottage until tomorrow evening, but there was far less opportunity to steal food and would have to spend another night under the stars. Not that it was too cold, but you could never depend on the weather staying as it was the day before.

If she headed south she would be at Kendal by the evening and perhaps be able to get a hot shower and a bed for the night. She might be able to hitch-hike and the path was well-trodden and familiar. But there was far more chance of being intercepted by the Ministry before she had reached the cottage. It was odds that she knew increased if Cecilia was in contact with more people. She couldn't risk it, not after all she had been through – galleon-sized blisters, sunburn, fatigue and unhygienic that she was.

That was why she had chosen the route she had, after all. If Cecilia had wanted comfort she could have had the Durmstrang ship sail due west, then south at the Hebrides, weaving its way as it would have done, past the Isle of Man and to Whitehaven, for example. There, she could have strolled to Nick Smith and Tonks's house and asked for a lift. The easy way. The arrogant way. The way of telling the world that she was back and it didn't matter to her who thought she was up herself.

Not the Cecilia way. Why do it easily when there's a more difficult method to try? Many people had wondered aloud while she was present why she would opt for complicated. The last one in a divisive way, scornfully and mocking. It was probably the last thing she really remembered Henrietta saying to her, well not _to_ her, exactly, to the room in general at Grimmauld Place, on that fateful night when she had had her outburst. But no-one had spoken for her, and it had been that barb which, even though she had decided to put it behind her, still stung. When, after all she had done and sacrificed, not just for her family, but for every single Reciprocator, and not one of them defended her when she was most in need of it. She would be willing to forgive, to put it down to weakness of character of those present, but she would not forget. She would not forget to put herself and her family first.

Getting to her feet, dressed in a ludicrous combination of jeans, t-shirt, a shirt, trainers, an oversize jumper she had found on a washing line in Northallerton along with socks which she had used as they were designed, on her feet, and another pair on her hands as makeshift mittens. She had misappropriated a woollen ski-hat with Velcro-up ear flaps from the holiday home, which had been most useful in the preceding nights, doubling as both head protection and a pillow, a pump bag, also from the holiday home with a rabbit appliquéd to it which she had used to carry her ill-gotten gains.

She would put it right, Cecilia promised to the cloudless sky. Nothing I've taken would really harm anyone and I'll put it right. She looked around her, swallowing down the bitterness that she had invoked and made the image of her son appear behind her closed eyes. Septimus.

"Mummy's coming, Septimus," she said softly. "I'll be with you soon."

Allowing the yellow hot sun to win on its course to her eyes she opened them and surveyed the landscape, thought for a moment, running her hand through her needed-to-be-washed hair then took a step. North.

88888888

It had been a long time since Septimus had been to Diagonalley but it hadn't changed in the least. Cobbled paving stones under his shoes told him he was elsewhere, not in a usual high street in Britain, where underfoot regular herringbone brickwork would be neatly laid and shop hoardings would be uniform in size and shape.

Not that he went to the shops much anyway, but mum still preferred to take him to town when he needed new clothes or shoes. Not that he liked it much either. He remembered complaining that he didn't want to be there with her and on occasions had gone out of his way to be difficult.

Shopping in Diagonalley was different, not least because the reason for coming there was different. Caelius was giving him the option to buy his school things there, what he would need at Hedgewards if he chose to be there. They weren't buying anything as such although he knew Caelius would probably buy him something. He usually did, and it was usually the case of the more often he had left Septimus the bigger the gift. Septimus often didn't want to choose a toy or game when Caelius prompted him, he would have preferred his Uncle Kay to be out with him on the hills and mountains bug-hunting or just exploring but he also didn't want to offend his uncle either.

Caelius had shown Septimus around every shop on the main Alley, the shops which would provide him with everyting he neded for Hedgewards – books, cauldron, wand…he knew the list. He remembered when Sam had returned from his shopping trip in the summer before he went to Hedgewards and how excited the young wizard had been when he had returned to the Reciprocator headquarters. Septimus could only have been about six at the time but he remembered Sam sweeping his arm around in an imitation of his father and exploding an urn on the top of the mantelpiece which shattered into several hundred pieces and about which his mother had never let him forget.

Caelius had been at pains to explain to Septimus that the trip did not mean he had assumed that Septimus would choose the British wizarding school, more that he just wanted to give his nephew the fuller picture and as much information as he needed before making his decision.

And it had been rather fun, too. Stanliander, the proprietor of the wand shop had nearly fallen over himself with delight when he realised the Head of Wizard Affairs had brought his nephew into his humble establishment. Blourish had explained, rather apologetically to Caelius about the delay in the non-wizard texts that ought to have been made available in Blourish and Flotts though assured him that by the end of the week his supplier would have delivered what he needed. Caelius had waved the bookseller's concerns away and said he understood the difficulty – the books had been commissioned less than a month before so it was understandable that there might be delays.

They had lunched at the Mended Cauldron, and Caelius had enthused about his days at the school, how Septimus's father, Remus, had, within weeks of starting at the school, implored the headmaster to give his elder brother a chance and how he was confident that Severus Snape would be able to help Caelius, considering his potion-making skills.

Septimus tried not to show he was bored, even though he had heard this story from his Uncle for probably the thousandth time. He knew it word for word, even the part when Uncle Kay nudged him and said, "and then what did Snape say? Eh?" Septimus tried to look keen and he sipped his lemonade before looking back at his uncle, hoping that an expression that was close to "rapt enthusiasm" would be enough.

"What did he say?" It was always best to ask a couple of questions during a well-trodden anecdote.

"Why, he said 'of course I can, just give me a week off lessons and it's yours.' And you know what? Old Dippet did!" Caelius grinned, nudging Septimus before draining his butterbeer. "I'm sure I've told you all this before," he concluded before, noticing the waiting-pixie, picked up his glass and leaned back as the magical winged creature laid down his plate of fish, peas and chips. Septimus leaned back too as the pixie laid a second plate of the same in front of him.

"Thanks Uncle Kay," said Septimus as he picked up his knife and fork. "This looks delicious. And I'm so glad you could take the time to show me round Diagonalley." Caelius nodded – he had already taken a bite of fish and he was chewing well. Septimus glanced wistfully at the door. To say he was not trying to coerce Septimus into choosing Hedgewards was pushing into the realms of reality. Of course his uncle wanted him to go Hedgewards. He had been designing the non-wizard curriculum, Septimus knew. But he also knew that his uncle knew his mother's wishes and knew that Septimus missed his mother.

His mind drifted to the last conversation he had had with his mother. It was only for a short time to help someone out of a situation, she had explained. She was like that, his mother. Always ready to elp other people, even sometimes putting their problem ahead of her own. Your father thinks it is a good idea that I go too.

"Can I go to see Dad again soon?" Caelius looked up from his dinned and smiled under his moustache at his nephew. "I just want to tell him about things, about the schools, about Julian, and lots of other things. I'm sure he can hear me."

"I'm sure too," replied Caelius, putting down his knife and clapping Septimus on the back. "I'm going there tomorrow daytime, but – "

"Can I come too?"

"Not then, but you can on Wednesday. Tomorrow I've somewhere else to take you." The sentence sounded final and Septimus knew enough not to push his uncle.

"I wanted to tell him I was choosing between Edgeford High and Hedgewards. I did think I might like to go to Durmstrang – not because of mum, " he added quickly, but it's supposed to be a good school for magic, isn't it?" Caelius nodded, but said nothing as he took a bite from a couple of chips that he had stabbed onto his fork. Which path to take? It was a decision which had been starting to haunt Septimus of late.

"But is that all they'll teach you at Durmstrang?" asked Caelius looking over the rim of his beerbutter glass like his father often did and Septimus knew that his uncle's question was more than just a question.

"Well…there'll be magic…"

"And who else will be at the school?"

"Only wizards, they don't admit non-wizards, do they?"

"Do you understand why Hedgewards will be accepting non-wizards? Septimus frowned, before biting off a forkful of peas. He supposed it was so that non-wizards could see what wizards did, so they could get jobs in the Ministry for example. He knew Hedgewards was a nice school, lovely grounds, open countryside, not unlike his home here so he supposed it wasn't fair for wizards to keep all that to themselves.

"It's good to share," Septimus said eventually. "And people, wizards and non-wizards, can learn about each other." His uncle smiled, and then nodded.

"It's about understanding. Durmstrang's headmaster believes wizards won't flourish if they're not taught in school specifically for them. But look at you. You've learned magic, you went to a non-wizard primary school, and it's not as if this is new to you. Septimus nodded despite the nagging doubt in the back of his mind which was that he _wanted_ to learn. There were some children who had magic whose parents were non-magical. Some of them wanted to forget about magic, or aspire to their parents non-magic careers. He had even heard, from Sam, of one poor boy whose father and mother had been so down on the whole idea of him doing magic that he had lost all his confidence in Charm Hour and spent every lesson thereafter in tears. Perhaps there was a place for a school for just magic after all. Maybe Septimus would have felt better about it all if he could talk to his mum and dad.

"Aberforth thought that it was best for wizards and muggles to be together but, until recently the Ministry were reluctant to consider it. But it helps that there is a Reciprocator as Headmaster." Professor Snape, thought Septimus, considering that looming wizard.

"Do you remember any of the shops here in Diagonalley?" Caelius looked through the dirty, cobweb-strewn Cauldron window, the glimmering lights of a shop selling animals shining through. "It must have been about five years ago since you were last here."

Septimus nodded a little but looked down at his half-eaten lunch. He remembered why he hadn't thought much about this wizardly commercial thoroughfare for such a long time. His mother had been upset, even though Dad had thought it had been a good joke. Septimus had hidden in Blourish and Flotts, lying under a cloth-covered table so he couldn't be seen in order to continue to read the latest comic about Finn McCool the Giant, his favourite "Marvellous Comics" character.

He remembered his parents' voices getting louder and louder as he sat under the table, three hours later, long after he had read the still-Blourish and Flott's comic, a time when panic and fear had set in for no-one had found him and Septimus had known, even at six, that if he left the shop there was even less chance of them finding him.

"You were young, and children hide," qualified Caelius in highly perceptive manner to which Septimus was now used. "That's what your Dad was telling your Mum." But mum hadn't been angry with him for hiding, he remembered, she'd been shouting at Dad for letting him out of his sight while she had been shopping for work robes in Madam Emaness's shop, something which he, and the rest of the bookshop, now knew that she had loathed doing and further, had had to go to Diagonalley, somewhere she loathed going. And after all of his mum's shouting he remembered Dad laughing at her.

"Does she love Dad?" Septimus didn't voice the question, nor did anyone answer it. Yet an answer appeared in his mind, regardless. "She does, in her own way."

"By the way," said Septimus, "I forgot to tell you there was a message in the hearth from someone, a woman. I…I think she appeared before, but didn't say anything. The connection seemed very bad. She said her name is Miss Grainger. Is she your girlfriend?"

"She works in the Ministry," replied Caelius, laughing heartily. "What did she have to say?"

"She said something about a veil. I thought she was talking about getting married, or something. And she also said – " Septimus broke off, the question which had been plaguing Septimus all day, which had been willing him out of shops, making him feel like what his mum must have done when she had been looking for him when he was younger, now burst out of him: "Please Uncle, please tell me where my mother is?"

"If I knew, I would, Septimus," replied Caelius, putting down his fork and patting Septimus on the back. "I was going to tell you this evening, but I'm glad you brought it up." He smiled at his nephew reassuringly. "What I meant to say was, I don't know exactly where she is, but she is in Britain somewhere." Septimus's eyes widened. He wanted to ask more questions but knew that he didn't want to chance on the fact that some of the answers he might not want to hear.

"Septimus, tomorrow I've got to go to Hedgewards. I wonder whether you would like to come with me to see what the school is like?" Septimus throught for a moment, trying to banish the bubbling thoughts of his mother, now, seemingly, at least, alive.

"Yes, that would be nice, Uncle Kay," Septimus replied, eating a few more chips, his mind as far from Hedgewards School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as it could probably be. Not as nice as those which Mum used to get for them as a treat, but nice enough. Even nicer now knowing that he could at least see her soon.

Ten minutes later, a pair of clean plates and the bill settled Septimus followed Caelius out of the Mended Cauldron. Mum. Missing still, yes, but not dead.

"To the Animalarium? How about your own owl, Septimus?" Septimus said nothing and the rest of the afternoon, the purchasing of a baby Tawny owl, their departure home and tea passing very much as an automated blur. Mum was not gone, she was alive. And she was coming home to him.


	19. HedgewardsSchoolofWitchcraft&Wizardry

The weather had turned against her. Cecilia had been a mere three hundred yards from the service station, which was her only non-suicidal way of getting across the M6 and the heavens had opened. Lunchtime on a Wednesday meant comparative fewer cars using the services and therefore fewer people to witness the sight of the jumble-dressed Cecilia tripping over wet sods of earth as she made it to the southbound services, dripping wet and not in the best of moods.

The hand-dryers in the ladies toilets had been her godsend. She knew that someone from the services, possibly a stern-looking, barrel-shaped woman who had been operating the till in the cafe, or a sharp-suited manager-type would be trying to find her, considering the amount of time she had spent in there. And the rest, under cover, though leaning against the stark, white tiles of the walls were hardly luxurious, were enough to make her be thankful for modernity.

Cecilia had raised more than a few eyebrows, mainly from services staff, when she went to spend the last of the money she had stolen from the Scarborough hotel room on a coffee and a sandwich, sitting as far from the counter and the gossiping women with hands alternatively held over their faces, clearly whispering about her, and let her gaze fall upon the proto-mountains of the Lake District; the bigger ones, in the very centre of the National Park, being hidden in unexpected and irksome precipitation.

If only she had trusted her instinct rather than doubted it and looked for more solid evidence of where she was. If only she had not decided to make it to a village close to the edge of the Yorkshire Dales so she could prove she to herself that she was heading in the right direction rather than just going she wouldn't be a sopping wet escapee political employee on the run back to her son. Instead she would be a dry one. Why was it that whenever it came to it she had to prove to herself she was doing the right thing rather than having faith in herself?

Inhaling, then sipping at the surprisingly quite pleasant coffee that the cardboard cup contained Cecilia imagined the near future and this time doubts appeared in her mind when the conjuring of the time when she would be with Septimus had always been so clear.

She thought – knew, even, that they would be reunited as a happy family, that Remus would agree to return with her to Edgeford (he had left when Aberforth had died and she had been sent to Durmstrang, a cold, heartless letter had told her this which she had gladly shredded to the four winds from the top of the Sky Tower the moment she had read it), and that Septimus would be with them too. All would be well.

Now, with less than a day in her stride Cecilia mused at the journey she had undertaken, across limestone chalk in the glorious summer; lying beneath the heavens watching satellites cross the sky overhead; borrowing on a medium-term basis what she needed to keep on…to keep on to her son.

What was to say that he didn't think that she'd just deserted him…? Left him alone to fend for himself…? He adored his father, and Caelius too…

…her mind drifted to his face…Septimus…when she had told him she would be away for "a few weeks". She guessed Remus must have told him the truth eventually, yet he continued to write, his address being the cottage near Helvellyn, _Remus's_ cottage to her mind, telling her about his new school, about exploring, about his new friend…

…Remus, when he had visited in June, when they had made up and he had given her renewed hope that their lives together weren't over, had told her how pleased he was that she was doing well at Durmstrang, but that he missed her. That was Septimus, stoic and accepting.

A pang of motherly love brought a tear to her eye. Her only son, her hope, her future. If only he knew how much she cared for him, how much he was with her every day, in her heart, that she would have chosen to be arrested by Caelius and been held in custody after her – well, what she now considered to be her breakdown – rather than have been sent away had it not been for him.

Dashing the self-destructive thoughts from her mind she allowed the now-reappearing scenery in the West to be her meditation. She had to cross the motorway, but that was easy – the covered walkway between the two service stations was behind her – and then: up and over the first hill and ever more in the distance. A sharp north-west after half a mile and follow the culvert towards Thirlmere.

As long as there was no more rain she would have a pleasant night in Fawcett Forest, just West of Hawesdale, on the border of the National Park itself (if not, she would have to get on with a damp night – not much to complain about considering all the beautiful nights she had spent in the Dales). Then on to Kirkstone Pass, watching the tourists weave their way down and up the slopes. A sharp left turn would lead her to then onto the land north of Rydal, where Septimus's tiny school presumably was and, with Thirlmere only a couple of miles away and Remus's – _Caelius's_ – cottage would be there.

Draining the cup and taking a few bites of the sandwich she bundled the rest up inside her coat and, grabbing a handful of napkins Cecilia walked steadily but determinedly across the M6 and towards her son.

88888888

Septimus had woken early. The sun's intense rays that he had been used to rousing him had given way to a duller sky. It had rained in the night but he hadn't worried about Owl flying about – the tag which had come with his cage had advised him to let him out at night where he was able, to catch his own food.

At least, that was what he thought the tag said. Tag probably wasn't the best description for the mass of information that was enclosed in the scroll that had accompanied Owl; half a book was more like it. But the language was rather strange – it seemed to be written in English where Septimus could read it, but half way through it switched to a different language and at the bottom had gone through several more before finally finishing in what looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics.

In the vein of every male alive though, Septimus had let Owl out for a fly before he had read any of the label. He whirled and swooped, basking in the cool air in the open countryside and, as he flew out of sight Septimus felt a lurch in his stomach that perhaps letting him out so soon was the wrong thing to do. Had he lost him for being so careless? Septimus worried for a good three minutes but his angst was replaced with joy when Owl flitted back, coming in through the window with a crash onto the bed, twit-twitting shrilly before hopping onto Septimus's pillow and onto the window sill before launching himself off into the air again.

Flicking the parchment over on Owl's cage Septimus had been quite relieved to see that he had done what appeared to be advised. Owl had come back to the window several times in the night, and presumably had continued to do so when Septimus had been asleep. He'd left his window open, despite the dampening in weather and had been greeted with three corpses of field mice, probably all that the tiny bird would have been able to carry in its miniature claws.

Owl, mused Septimus as his little pet – his first at that – arrived back to the window-ledge to peck at the bodies of the mice and he stroked his downy head affectionately, smiling as he arched his feathery neck into the rub. It wasn't the most imaginative name, he could stick with it. He'd not given the idea of a name for the owl a thought when Caelius had told him he could have one, so delighted he had been that his uncle had been so generous to him. And if he decided to go to Hedgewards he knew that, amongst the noble names that other owls would have been given the poor thing might feel rather plain.

In an effort to find a suitable moniker for his adorable Athena he had read, the evening before, through the History of Hedgewards book which had also come home with them from Diagonalley (not half so exciting as soon-not-to-be-Owl, though) in search of inspiration. Then he had turned to the label on the cage.

"Anaxagoras's Animal Emporium" [he read] "here is a small gift of the world biggest animal seller." Underneath another sentence read, "Voici un adoriel par…" and below that, in German, "Hier ist einen gift aus…"

After that was a cross to indicate a spell was needed for further languages (but no advice as to which one should be used). As Septimus had never really used spells he didn't bother trying to extend the list, after all there was a big enough label attached to Owl's cage as it was – heaven knows how much paper might have appeared in his room.

But the translation between the languages was rather poor, in Septimus's opinion. In German, Septimus knew, "gift" meant "venom", something which he had seen so often on his mother's chemicals when she had done work at home, and he was sure that the owner didn't mean that the owl was poisonous!

Nothing had sprung out at him, not even from the words on the tag, and Septimus had considered that would have been the best source for information. Had Owl been a female he might have considered "Adoriel", which sounded far too girly for a boy owl. But no, nothing had arisen that he had thought, "yes, that's your name." Owl it was then, for now.

"I'd better clean up the mess on the floor before Uncle Kay sees it," said Septimus, tickling Owl's head again. Owl pipped a reply before bending his head low and tearing into the centre of one of the deceased mice. Stepping away Septimus looked inside the cage and considered that he probably needed a little more straw too. The starter bag that had come with Owl was down in the kitchen and so, leaving Owl to his breakfast he opened his bedroom door, hoping that Caelius had not left an awakening spell on his door. For it wasn't just the excitement of his owl that had kept Septimus up for part of the night and had woken him up so early. Today, Septimus was going with Caelius to Hedgewards School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Only for a visit, he added to himself as he went down the wooden stairs two by two, wheeling around the banister pillar and into the kitchen. Caelius was going to speak to Severus Snape and he had wondered aloud over dinner the previous night (Caelius had even taken to time to cook beef and summer vegetables by himself for them, followed by ice-cream) whether Septimus would like to come for a look round.

Two hours later, one clean room, a sleeping owl in his cage and eaten Shreddies Septimus was sitting in the living room waiting for his Uncle to get together everything he needed.

"How are we going to get there?" Septimus asked, his excitement coming to a head. "Will we be flying?"

"Too slow today," replied Caelius getting together things apparently (to Septimus) at random, and he mooched around the living room and in the kitchen, filling a box with things. "I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing, eh?" Septimus nodded.

"Yes," he added when he realised that his uncle couldn't see him.

"Just some everyday things from around here, that's what I'm collecting up," said Caelius, giving Septimus a wink. "You'll see." He stopped walking around distractedly and looked at his nephew. "And no, we're not flying. We have permission from the Ministry to disapparate today, just outside the Edgestones."

Because, of course, no-one can apparate or disapparate inside the grounds of Hedgewards, thought Septimus, running the sentence over in his mind. Sam had told him, as to had his father and mother, in the past. And it had been the opening sentence in the Hedgewards history book that he had, to his own amazement, read a little of the previous night after Caelius had asked him if he wanted to come with him.

Twenty minutes later and he and Caelius were outside, a sack, as if he were Father Christmas, slung over his shoulder and they held hands. Uncle Kay had explained it was far more exciting if they were outside and far less stressful on the digestive system.

Septimus wasn't listening to the details though; just the thought of disapparating to Hedgewards was making him very excited although he did wish, as they landed with a bump on a hillock, that he had paid just a little more attention to Uncle Kay's flight instructions.

"Bend your knees, I said," Caelius chided jokingly as Septimus rolled onto the grass. "Here," he said, gripping him by the crook of the arm, "there, now," he added as Septimus bent over, heaving. "It can take you like that," he said, waiting for Septimus to get over it. As the wave of nausea passed Septimus stood up, freezing at the magnificent sight before him.

He'd seen the school from photographs before…the one of his father and some of the Reciprocators, probably standing close to where they were now with the castle in the background…the woodcut on his book…postcards, descriptions in his mind from those who knew the school, but this – it was beyond words – magnificent was nothing to describe the majesty, strength, splendour of the building, growing as it appeared to be, from the rock around it, skirted by the large lake – the Black Lake, Septimus knew.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Caelius said as he saw his nephew's face. He took Septimus's hand and led him a few steps before pointing down. "And here are the Edgestones. We cross those and Snape will know we're here."

"Are they…talking?" Caelius nodded, heaving the sack back onto his shoulder. He leaned further forward, trying to catch anything discernable.

"They're talking Igneous," said Caelius, smiling.

"But that's just their type, isn't it? We're in Scotland, these are volcanic rocks…igneous."

"Yes, that's right, but that's their language too. It's not a spell that lets the Headmaster of Hedgewards know that we're here. They talk to one another, pass it between the stones right up to the castle, through its foundations, through its walls…"

"That's so cool," Septimus half-whispered as Caelius stepped over the boundary. As he did so the chattering got louder. "Wow…"

"This way," Caelius said, not looking back as he climbed to the zenith of the hill. "Come on, there's a better view from here."

An hour later and Septimus had been given strict instructions where and where he was not to explore. The castle was being modified for the incoming non-wizard students and it was more dangerous than usual. Grinning inwardly Septimus left Professor Snape's office in the company of a house-elf who had looked as if he would faint as Professor Snape, his gimlet-eyes fixing on the magical creature, reiterated what he had said to Septimus, and he descended the spiral staircase with a map of the castle grounds and, when he got to the bottom looked to his right in the direction of the Great Hall.

"A good choice, sir," wittered the house elf, dithering by his side, his too-long-for-him Hedgewards clothing gathering at his ankles. "If you don't mind me saying so sir, you look too young to be in the Ministry."

"How is the training progressing? You've not told me of any resignations so good, I trust?"

"Better than I expected, I must admit." Severus Snape slipped from behind his desk, probably the first headmaster in Hedgewards' history to wear leather trousers. "Although it may hav passed over Binns; the rest were enthusiastic, however. Your policy has gone down well. You'll not find many teachers against the idea of teaching their subject. It's a challenge." Snape nodded at the bag that Caelius had struggled with over the grounds of the castle. "We're making the adaptations in line with James's recommendations. The curriculum has a few adjustments still to be made with it and, as you saw, the builders are in. I take it you have some objects there?"

"Just a few," admitted Caelius, crossing the flagstone floor and tipping it onto Snape's desk. The headmaster's eyes scrutinised the bag's contents. "Teapot, alarm clock, pyjamas…you think the castle's spells need to be adapted to recognise a _teddybear_?"

"You've been a teacher at this school for a long time, Snape," replied Caelius smoothly, "and you're honestly telling me that you don't think some of the school's first-years…fourth-years even, bring their own cuddly toys?" Severus Snape's eyes narrowed. "And these are all from Cecilia Lupin's house?

"Genuine non-wizard possessions. I believe the teddybear is Septimus's," he added.

"It'll take a few hours, then you can take them back with you. I couldn't deprive the lad of his teddybear."

"I think it might have been forgotten recently. As his next of kin I thought it only right to be the one to get him his first pet, especially if he decides that Hedgewards is the school for him in a couple of weeks time."

"You don't sound so sure…" Snape paced a couple of steps towards Caelius, "…and yet you've presumed…" He stopped, then added, "you talk as if both his parents are dead." Caelius paused for a moment. Snape was always going to be sensitive around the topic of Cecilia Lupin but he knew it must be addressed before the joint heads of the Reciprocator movement could get on with business.

"There's been protests, of course, but nothing of consequence."

They eyed each other carefully. Neither one would ever have been able to say where mistrust came from. Snape had never fallen for Caelius's charmed talk; Caelius knew that he owed Snape for the brilliance he had never had. They had taken over Aberforth's role and their predecessor could never have chosen better, on paper at least. But maybe he knew more than he appeared to for, despite it all, they did manage to work, there was a professionalism between them. From the frame above the fireplace Aberforth Dumbledore winked, ever so slightly.

"Both are alive…we have detected Cecilia." Snape raised an eyebrow. "It is not discernable exactly where she is, but she is in th country. There is only a limited amount of places where she would be heading, of course."

"And you've told Septimus his mother is alive and in the country? He did look a little more at ease than when I saw him last." And when was that, precisely? Thought Caelius.

"A question arises, have you not given the child false hope? She may not be on her way to see him, especially after the role you have given to her. You don't know where she will go."

"We can but see. But I did not recall her, she came of her own free will. Her own wilfulness got her here and the most precious thing to Cecilia, as we know, is Septimus. She's bound to be trying to find him. You've not heard from her I take it?" Snape shook head.

"My last correspondence was over eighteen months ago."

A long pause lingered between them before Snape made his way to the fireplace. Pulling his wand from the back of his trousers (a dangerous place to stow a wand, or it would be had Snape not taken adequate precautions), he tapped on the fireplace. It slid grindigly, stone-on-stone, up behind the wall to reveal a set of steps leading round in a spiral.

"I expect you'd like to see what changes have been made to the castle? If you'd accompany me, we'll go this way."

"Before we go, there is something I must discuss with you, Severus." Snape paused sharply. Caelius Lupin had only ever once called him by his first name and that was when he had thanked him for devising the wolfsbane potion that had allowed him to control his lycanthropy.

"Remus and Sirius. They're still unconscious and still in St. Mungo's. How does the progress of any hope for my brother go? Have you been able to come up with something?" A change in Caelius's usual self-assured tone made Severus Snape pause, unused as he was to the wizard's humility.

"Until they awake, I can administer nothing, as I've explained. Has there been a change in either's condition then?"

"They've begun to feed Remus animal blood by drip. He was failing until someone suggested it – his body had rejected the glucose and minerals. On the one hand, it is good news for him, he is still with us…"

But on the other, Snape added, completing the rest of Caelius's unspoken sentence, it is more likely he has taken on vampiristic traits.

Septimus had had the best few hours of his life as the house elf, to whom he had admitted he was actually a student and not from the ministry, helped him explore. The magical creature had relaxed from its grovelling state and was now far more chatty saying he wished he had lived now and might have had a chance of coming to the school as a student.

They had seen the dormitories, been in some of the classrooms – Septimus had resisted the urge to take anything off any shelves for he knew too well that it may spell doom – had visited the library and spoken to Madam Pince about the library books, wondering why they appeared spine-backwards with the edges of their pages showing ("because that's how they're supposed to be displayed. There's nothing on the spines, we have to write the book titles in the page-edges") and been outside to see the quidditch pitch. He'd glanced up to the owlery too, knowing that Owl would be there soon, with the other owls, collecting and delivering mail.

Knowing he would be there? Was that his decision, then? Pausing by the wall of final year student photographs he found his father, standing with Sirius Black, James and Lily Potter and other people he knew of, smiling and waving (and in some cases cheering and in one poor boy's case, vomiting). Perhaps he always knew he would be here, despite what his mother wanted.

"I understand this is yours?" The voice grated near his ear and his blood ran a little chillier than it had done whilst he had perused the student pictures. Septimus turned, knowing exactly who was standing behind him.

"If that's all, sir, I'll return to the kitchen," stammered the house elf, scuttling away towards the Great Hall.

And he was holding his teddybear. Why was he holding Ted?

"Your uncle kindly brought some objects with him when you came to the castle. You may have noticed the sack." His lips turned up at the corners. It was a joke. Septimus relaxed a little when he realised that the headmaster wasn't being serious.

"You're there, sir," said Septimus, pointing to a stone-faced youth at the back of the picture that his father was in.

"Indeed." He held out Ted. "Your uncle has had to, unfortunately, return to the Ministry. I offered to return the objects, and yourself, back to your uncle's cottage." He began to walk towards the Great Hall. After a few moments Septimus followed, walking quickly to keep up. No Uncle Kay tonight then. Just as he was getting used to him being around.

As they turned the corner into the foyer of the main entrance of the castle, avoiding a block hammer that one of the builders had accidentally dropped (Snape freezing it in mid-air before levitating it back to the embarrassed wizard) he asked about Septimus's decision about attending the school.

"I think so," replied Septimus, "but – "

"But – ?"

"Mum always wanted me to go to a non-wizard school."

"I see."

"You worked with mum, didn't you?" Septimus wondered if he'd said too much but the wizard, rather than admonishing him, smiled a little.

"Indeed. Your mother is a singular woman. I do believe that she would prefer you to make a free choice. Do you know about the changes that are happening in the school's history not a week from now?" Septimus nodded.

"You're accepting non-wizards. I expect that's what the builders are in for."

"Yes. And these objects that your uncle brought with him today. We have to train the castle's main spells to recognise these objects if they are brought in by non-wizards next week. Otherwise there'll be a lot of tidying up to do as they arrive." They crossed the courtyard and headed down the path that he had climbed with his struggling uncle.

"Professor, can I ask you about mum? Uncle Kay said she was alive, and in the country."

"Then he is sure to be right. He wouldn't have told you that if it weren't true. What would you like to ask me?"

"What did mum do when she worked with you?"

"Science," replied Snape, simply. "She helped us with our work. We could not have done some of the things we have done without her. As I said, she is a singular woman, courageous…intelligent. She taught too."

"Caelius says mum's been found, but I'm worried."

"You're right to be right to be worried. And it shows you are growing up."

They began to descend, along the path Septimus and Caelius had taken.

"When I met you at Grimmauld Place, years ago, you said I was too young to read mum's book about Harry Potter. Why did you say that?"

"Because you were too young," said Snape, picking his way carefully past the gamekeeper's cottage.

"Am I too young now?" A few moments of silence passed between them then Snape stopped abruptly, Septimus slipping a little to stop himself falling into Snape.

"Do you think you're too young?"

"I'm not sure…"

"And you don't know whether you'd like to come to this school to learn?" Septimus opened his mouth, then closed it.

"When you can answer those questions, you'll know if you're old enough."

They walked in silence to the Edgestones, their Igneous chatter growing louder now Septimus knew to listen to it.

"I understand your uncle bought you an owl. You're a very fortunate young man. Owls are rather expensive. What is his name?"

"Er…" He crossed the Edgestones with the interjection still hanging. "Owl. But I'm still thinking of a proper name for him. Are we disapparating back?"

"We are."

Oh great, thought Septimus, his heart sinking. Bend your knees this time. At least you know what to expect. Somehow that made it worse.

"Mervyn," said Snape as he held his wand aloft. "It means Great King."

As they swirled into the ether Septimus's last thought was…Mervyn…it suits my little owl.

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	20. Mrs and Master Lupin

The handle turned in the empty kitchen and Cecilia Lupin stepped onto the orange-and-brown oversized flower tiles. Exhaling deeply she stopped to look around at the room as the realisation that her journey had now ended washed over her.

She was back. Or rather, she was here. She had lived in this cottage once, at one time. Not in this time, of course. Here the cottage was inherited by the elder Lupin son, by the son who was bitten by the werewolf, something which, of course, had happened in Old Place. But in the Old Place the elder son was the only son, Remus Lupin, and it had been here he had sheltered from the world to hide his lycanthropy and here where Cecilia had lived, for a time, working on the Universal Link and Harry's potion before Severus Snape had whisked her away just before the Ministry had arrived to befuddle her. The knowledge that it was the first time she had been back here, even during her life with Remus in this world, struck her as important.

Taking a few steps towards the former utility laundry room Cecilia's mind returned to the time when it had been filled with two Liebig condensers, flasks, blends, vials…now it was truly honouring its name with the old-fashioned slotted vent slats horizontal to let in the maximum heat from outside as shirts and trousers dried on an overhead hanging rail and an ancient washing machine from a company Cecilia knew had gone out of business in the 1960s settled like an elderly relative in a comfortable armchair behind the door.

The cottage. Where she and Remus had spent their pre-wedding honeymoon period. The place which was almost totally isolated from the world, hidden from view from any road and a mile's walk from the main track. A place where a round shopping trip was ten miles each way and where only the most determined hiker might glimpse the green slate roof (to them a deserted crofter's cottage courtesy of the "Dissembled" spell).

She turned on her heel as a creak above her reminded Mrs Lupin that her son was whom she was seeking and she strode past the kitchen table and through the door into the living room, the furniture the same, and in the same orientation, as in Remus's cottage. She stopped. The view she had before her now was identical to one which she had had in her head when she had been unknowingly sheltered at the Dursleys', in the guise of a home tutor for Dudley.

All those nights when she had cried herself to sleep in the Dursleys' spare room she had pictured herself here; when she had heard the handle of the door press down and knowing it was Vernon Dursley attempting to try his luck and hearing him curse under his breath at his inability to remove the chair from under it she had screwed up her eyes and made her way in her mind up the open wooden stairs which were now to her right. When she had had to endure Petunia's dogged loyalty to her swine of a husband she focused on Remus's soft features smiling at her from the dated, threadbare settee; when Dudley had belittled her and talked down to her when she had been teaching him she remembered him holding her hand and talking about their future.

And, as Draco Malfoy had identified her to the Ministry wizards and she had been pursued by a Dementor this place was in her head, how it smelt, the food cooking in the kitchen, the acrid smell of a green Harry's potion base wafting in from the utility room which had formerly been a coal-house, the living room, where she was standing now, where the open stairs led up to the bedrooms and small bathrooms before unconsciousness triumphed.. Here, the house seemed the same, same structure, same open windows and rickety steps down from the kitchen to the moorland, which she had ascended.

No, Cecilia remembered, this wasn't the first time she had been here. She had been here once before, when Septimus had been a few weeks old and the Machiavellian mask of cunning that Cecilia was used to seeing in the years that followed and that she had come to abhor had slipped away to reveal genuine joy in their son, his nephew, and in the couple of days she and Remus has spent there Caelius had barely let Septimus out of his sight. Cecilia smiled as she recalled Caelius cooing over Septimus's Moses basket, oblivious to being seen. That's where he would be now, Cecilia assumed, in the same room that Caelius had provided for him all those years ago. Sentiment, it seemed, and familial love far stronger than double-facededness.

But in essence the place was the same with sepia pictures of Remus's parents on the steps down to the moorlands, bucket in hand to collect water and shovel in another to collect peat to dry and burn in the open fire. Even wizards liked to fit in with the local populace and such activity was commonplace with Lakelanders; that wood was identified as being fuel, rather than by species, where limestone was dug up and heated to produce lime before being sprinkled by hand on the acidic soil, where the whole cycle of life, birth, death occurred not in sporadic isolation but as part of the fabric of the landscape. Where things were bought for function and only when they could not be made, adapted or altered for purpose. Not that Remus's parents were poor by any means, it was more their way of life, passed on from John Lupin's own parents. And to Cecilia, living there for just a short time, it felt more real, living _with_ the land, not just in a house on it sealed off from it by double glazing.

As she ascended the stairs she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror, shocked by her appearance. She looked far older than her forty two years; it was no wonder she had had several cars stop for her on the small stretch of the A591 that she had had to use to get across to Rydal – she looked like an old woman. And smelt like one too. For the first time in two hundred miles she hoped Septimus wasn't here so she could at least get clean enough to see him.

"Hello?" Cecilia's voice croaked as it echoed upstairs. "Anyone home?" No answer. Descending back down the stairs she made the bold but critical decision to throw some logs on the fire, waiting a quarter of an hour for it to build up before taking off everything she was wearing and letting it burn, including her shoes. Ten days of hardship and sleeping outdoors, the staleness and dirt being turned into fuel for the back burner which Cecilia switched on. Ten minutes later and the water would be warm enough for a soak, a good trade.

As she reclined in the soothing hot water her mind turned to the near future, when someone would be there, and how she explained her presence. No, Cecilia corrected herself, put her case firmly and assertively. It was only right that she, Remus and Septimus should be together as a family, return to Edgeford with the lakes behind them, and continue their lives. Then a thought occurred to her – she had brought nothing with her, other than what she was standing up in. On the bathroom chair in her shoulder bag lay some scribbled notes for belated owings on her journey. What would she do for clothing?

Cecilia dried herself on the fresh clean towel that she had found in the airing cupboard, wrapping it around her before padding around to her son's room. Septimus had regularly spent time here in the summer, a great holiday for him when he was younger and he always took with him some clothes for his parents in case they were ever to visit. Remus had come but she had never visited Septimus here in summers past. Her only hope after her stupidity was that he had kept the suitcase in his room.

On top of the wardrobe she found what she was looking for and Cecilia pulled out a patterned top and a long skirt, something which clearly Septimus had thought were suitable clothes (what she must have been thinking when she bought such drab things Cecilia hadn't a clue) and were entirely hideous.

Beggars can't be choosers, Cecilia thought to herself as she pulled on the clothes and then sat down on her son's bed. She looked around. It was a typical eleven year-old's room: clothes that needed washing in a little pile behind the door next to some books. Others sat on the 1960s teak bookcase with models of Vikings and a longboat on the top. Amongst the books were ones about wizards, books about outdoors and some adventure books. A book which she and Remus had bought for Septimus about sea stories one Christmas was half-under his bed.

Near the window was a cage, a tiny owl huffing almost silently at the bottom of it, its eyes clamped shut and one wing over its head. Apart from the eyes Cecilia could almost have mistaken it for a tawny-feathered tennis ball. How she wished she had been with Remus and Septimus to choose the little thing and her heart warmed as she thought of them both in Diagonalley looking at pets. It cooled slightly as the decision about secondary schools had clearly been discussed in her absence and, considering the magical creature and the existence of more than one book about magic in her son's summer holiday room had the decision already been made? She looked around further, knowing that she couldn't be sure until she had seen Remus and talked to him or Septimus. But a part of her, the new her, had come to realise that she didn't care any more. No matter where her son got his education as long as she was part of his life again questioned whether it mattered, in the long run.

Shoes were scattered near the end of the bed and Cecilia smoothed the candlewick bedspread which, underneath, gave way to a more modern duvet which she discovered when she remade the bed, finding a small magnifying glass which seemed to go with a mystery book between the pillows. As she did her mumsy tidying it struck Cecilia that she had missed out on so much for the last nearly two years and she didn't know her son as well as she should.

Getting to her feet Cecilia saw he had something else that was hers. On top of another heap of books by his wardrobe she saw a framed photograph, the last one of them, of the three of them, together, smiling, with Edgeford Forest behind them, a place where they used to take so many lovely walks as a family. "One of the only times which you ever made time for us," Remus had thrown at her, a sharp barb which struck deep and which had been one of the first thing he had apologised to her for when he had come to her at Durmstrang on the first day of June.

Cecilia put the photograph aside and picked up a book next to which the photograph had been resting. It was a magic book, Book 1 of spells and she flicked through it, the description of the Universal Connection explained briefly, matter-of-factly, in neat gothic script. Here the Universal Link had been discovered and developed by Severus Snape as Hedgewards' first academic research. Perhaps if other academic institutions, non-wizard universities and the like, whose doctors and professors were obliged to carry out research, had not questioned the honorary title of "Professor" in magical academic establishments and called for parity Snape may not have been the discoverer in this world. Cecilia debated this for the moment before dismissing the thought. It was not an exaggeration, she concluded, to consider the wizard a genius. Of course he would have discovered the Universal Link – if not he, who else?

Which is why it felt so strange to think that something she had worked on in this very place was reduced to sentences that included a mention that energy was in cells of wizards which was channelled for them to use magic whereas non-wizards didn't have that capability genetically; the W band convention which she had originally devised, was explained in a factbox and an "Interesting Fact " that wizards must be in magical environment for a long time for it to work to the best advantage.

Which explained Petunia Dursley, of course, Cecilia thought who, in the Other Place, had chosen not to develop her magical powers even though she probably had the same potential as her sister Lily. Then there was the people like Tonks's father who were carriers of the W band but didn't have the ability to access it but magical environments affected him, as they had done her as a non-wizard.

Petunia Dursley. Here she was Petunia Black, a good friend and confidante of Cecilia, especially just after her bilious outpouring at Grimmauld Place and before she had been banished to Durmstrang. At Privet Drive bitterness and sadness from all those years of being pushed aside, being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person, the wrong wizard, the wrong husband...here, she was happy with Sirius's brother Regulus and her son Darren, was a well-rounded, down to earth, child.

Petunia was so very giving of her time, sitting up with Cecilia when she had hammered on her door in the early hours of the morning having walked out of Grimmauld Place that night in a white-hot fury. In fact Petunia was always there when she needed a chat – she understood the wizard world though chose not to be involved in it and Cecilia had done, especially in the later years when she had deliberately distanced herself from the Reciprocators.

Put it down, a voice in Cecilia's head told her as the old dragon of acrimony stirred. It was behind her. She wasn't going to trouble herself with magic and science any more. Leave it to Severus. Leave it to the researchers at Durmstrang. Leave it to the Reciptocators, if any of them ever appreciated the connection, of course. 

She reached for her leather shoulder bag. Past the notes scribbled on the backs of receipts and adverts Cecilia's hand rested on a slim copy of a book she shouldn't have. It was the last thing she would do. Her intention had been to pass it on to Caelius and this is what she would do once she was reacquainted to her brother-in-law again.

No matter what he had done to her it was the right thing to do, especially considering the current mood, in the newspapers at least, from what she could gather. Deep down she felt that he was doing the best for what he saw was important. The Art of the Wize had taken her many weeks to copy down and, in its raw, Norweigan form, she hoped that she had copied it truthfully. For she knew that what was in it was important, for the greater good of all. She certainly hadn't done it for the Reciprocators. No. She couldn't she wouldn't think about the hostility that she could feel if Cecilia only let herself, save to remind herself that it wasn't them that she did this for.

Not that she had read it – she had skimmed what she thought was a general lesson preparation notebook – but the words "Universal Link" had been repeated too many times in the small document to be a coincidence. She gazed at her notebook and smoothed the creased, card surface. To the wizards at Durmstrang their research was just a job, a means to make money. Few if any researcher-teachers had a passion for science, for magic, for helping people just for the sake of it, for the love of it, although there had been one exception, Ragnhild Andersson, who would at least speak to her and ask Cecilia how she was. Her research was into the magical traits of the redheaded gene and Cecilia often thought how useful to her a visit to the Weasley family would be.

At first she had assumed it was her, the situation, that she was seeing her non-elected position in the ranks of the Durmstrang wizards from a jaded perspective but Cecilia had learned that such a cool approach was common to all of the Durmstrang wizards. Not that she could approach work in that way, but Cecilia could see the advantages of keeping one step away from the subject matter of your work. She sat down on Septimus's bed again and stowed away the notebook.

Her stay abroad had made Cecilia see the role of the Reciprocators differently. Not that a part of her would ever forget how they had treated her (forgive, yes, she would forgive for the sake of living back with her family) and their dedication, however false she felt it was in some of the witches and wizards, had made them an essential in the fabric and richness of the country's understanding between wizards and non-wizards.

It wasn't as if the absence of Voldemort as he had been meant they were not needed – far from it. People needed reminding of the fact that differences didn't divide tem but unite them. Those people, Lily, James, Henrietta…Sirius, the Weasely family…Severus…Remus…those people who she thought she knew she had long ago realised that she certainly did not.

That has been her biggest mistake, the huge assumption that she knew them, and on that basis been like she had been, making further more mistakes, assumptions, misjudgements, ill-judged remarks, out of context and, because only Aberforth, and then Severus and Caelius had known of her origin, could not make allowances for her. And further, she had not made the allowances she could have for their ignorance. Many had not said anything the night of, for want of a better word, her breakdown: many had said nothing, which she had taken as being their silent agreement of Henrietta Edwards' diatribe. They had just lost their leader, for heavens' sake, and there she was, the non-wizard wife of one of them yelling and screaming at her adopted daughter in front of them?

Getting to her feet Cecilia walked out of Septimus's room and downstairs as Cecilia, not for the first time, considered the whole sorry episode from a neutral perspective. Perhaps she was judging them too harshly – would she have been sympathetic in her position? And had she been judging herself with equal severity? Would have been able to do what she had been doing for the last decade considering what he had been through in the Other Place, knowing she couldn't go back and had to remain, and not have had some sort of breakdown?

How much had she hated the apathy. This _was_ the last she would think about it, but she had to, to get it out of her system once and for all. She had sworn to give her and Remus a chance and put theses, her feelings, into their grave. She shook her head, knowing she would never have been in a hundred-mile radius of people with their attitude if she had had a choice.

She descended the stairs, looking at Remus's parents holding their peat shovels and buckets. They looked so happy. Remus had often told her that all the time he had known them, before both of them had died, they would treat one another as if a courting couple, holding hands, kissing, sharing private chuckles over silly things. Perhaps she and Remus could be like that now, now they had given one another a second chance?

The August sun had waned a little and longer shards of sunlight were glancing through the western-facing picture windows and Cecilia shook her head as she looked at the patterns the sunlight had created through the frosted living room door glass as it shone through and onto the mirror above the fireplace as she sat down on the larger of the tapestry-patterned, wooden-armed settees.

Their indifference, the arrogance of such people in golden positions; such gifts that they just took for granted. And more than this, mocking her for her keenness, making allowances for Severus because of his unparalleled genius and position given identical circumstances. Was it Cecilia in herself that they despised so much, rather than her status?

It was the women who thought like this, the wizards remained stony silent to the witches' incessant pallid chatter about personal advancement, status, possessions and female one-upmanship. How much she hated this, enhanced as it was in this backdrop. Behind their backs she called the women of the Reciprocators "the Plastics" for their brittleness, their fakeness, their artificialness all of which was just so inherently irritating. It had been her defence. On the regular occasions she would have to stay with them and be sociable Cecilia would cheer herself up by even numbering the witches, telling herself that them and their opinions were plastic personified: cheap but diverse and useful to have around.

Thinking about it, was it really a defence or was she really no better than them? No, she thought. One of them needn't have taken the barbs and indirect comments so far. It was never by accident that Henrietta criticised her "Harry Potter" book, or her mere honorary role in the Reciprocators, or that she had been "moved on" from Hedgewards.

All Cecilia knew was that there had been passion once in the Reciprocators – her favourite time before a meeting was to get there half an hour before any of the women showed up from work. Then Dedalus, Aberforth and Unctious Walker would talk about the "old days", laugh about shared experiences, where they really connected with one another, where the quest for wizard-non-wizard understanding was personal and front-line, not like now, when those involved in the Reciprocators had little to deal with personally other than paperwork and reports, Auror support and wizard-non-wizard liaison. Listening to the older wizards reminded her so much of the Or –

– don't think it! Cecilia made herself focus on the here-and-now; on the fireplace, on its brickwork, scorched and roasted over decades of use, before getting to her feet, folding her arms and walking towards the kitchen door, the north-facing room cooler than the living room and refreshing on her bare feet. The Reciprocator movement _would_ be different, of course, by its very role in a completely different society. The death of Aberforth would have changed it yet again. She opened the door to the kitchen, her bag swinging from her shoulder as she crossed the 1960s patterned tiles before opening the door and sitting on the fragile wooden steps that her parents-in-law had stood upon for their photo.

That was why Cecilia had brought back the book, as a funeral gift to their tempestuous past, the Reciprocators and her, parting at last and drawing a line. Would it be useful to them? She still didn't know what it contained but Cecilia could work out that it mentioned the "Universal Link", "Conjurists" and "Non-Wizards" often enough to make it just a bit more than benign. Cecilia sighed at second-only decision that she was wholeheartedly behind (the other being leaving the Durmstrang Institute in the first place) and she decided that she didn't care if anyone else agreed with her decision. The soft summer breeze played with her hideously-patterned ankle-length skirt and she folded her arms.

Of course, it wouldn't be for her to judge; if it was up to Cecilia she would have ignored it and come back empty-handed. But the conscience in her had been concerned that someone was seemingly attempting to discern between wizards and non-wizards using scientific evidence and she knew well enough that the wizard to whom the work belonged had Conjurist leanings and quite openly stated that both should be separate. Where Caelius was promoting policies based on entirely the opposite, if the work turned out to be what she suspected, an attempt at magical apartheid using science to justify it, her brother-in-law should be the one to read it and make decisions based upon it. In short, she had brought the book back for Caelius on the premise that, if she has been his spy, then here she was, with evidence of it all for him. She was done with it all.

You're so good Caelius, at making people do what you want them to do, she said aloud to her absent brother-in-law. If there was a prize for spin and double-talk in politics you'd definitely win hands-down! And yet, thought Cecilia, though he was second to none at conniving she there were still one thing that had been so predictable – that Septimus would be there that summer, not at home with Remus in Edgeford. She had known that he and Remus had been living in the cottage in her absence but whereas Remus had told her he would be moving back, to make a fresh start with her, it hadn't stopped their son from spending yet another summer with his uncle.

Thoughts of their future together filled Cecilia's mind and the muscles in her face smiled broadly, stinging and pulling into a rarely used expression. They would be happy once more and Caelius would not be able to stop them, of that Cecilia was determined with every fibre of her being.

The image in her mind suddenly changed from the happy one she had been picturing in the mid-foreground into another. It took a few moments to realise that the figures standing there were actually real, though, and the flash that had preceded it was from an apparition.

Helping her son to his feet Severus Snape had taken his hand and appeared to be talking to him. Cecilia froze. Septimus. And he looked ill…he shouldn't be Disapparating, not at his age! No wonder he felt sick!

Cecilia stumbled down the five stairs and onto the moss-covered ground. Neither had seen her she ascertained, being over a hundred yards away. Her heart beat faster – her baby boy, just there, grown up so much in the last two years but unmistakeably her little Tim. She swallowed the heavy lump in her throat as she trod ungainly over sharp shards of rock towards them. Then stopped. Septimus had seen her. A moment passed between them and then time, as it was wont to do in these situations, stood still, and the distance between them grew smaller until they were both in each other's arms.

A long look in their direction was the only pause that Severus Snape took before raising his wand and disapparating again, the sight of mother and son reunited in his view's wake.

88888888


	21. Misters Lupin, Senior and Junior

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Cecilia spent the evening with Septimus. Indeed, she had not left his side, nor he hers. They chatted and caught up; Cecilia asked him about how he was enjoying his new school and his explorations around the countryside; he asked her why she looked so thin and had short hair.

"Hacked off because I was!" Cecilia had joked, and they'd both laughed about it. She'd sensed that he was concerned about her and she explained that she'd had a big adventure getting back to the cottage from Durmstrang, "which is probably why Uncle Kay thought I was missing," she'd added when Septimus's concern he managed to form into words. "I've done what work was needed doing."

When Caelius had not appeared at teatime she'd made the effort to cook what little there was in the cupboards (spaghetti hoops, toast and eggs, cursing silently at the lack of fresh fruit and vegetables and vowing the cottage would be brimming full of the stuff the next day). As they ate Cecilia asked him about Snape and Septimus's face turned into a bright beam of happiness as he recounted his exploits, from nearly falling down the stairs from the third floor, the classrooms, the Great Hall and being "haunted" by all of the castle's ghosts in turn and the grounds.

"There's even a place for Mervyn," Septimus had added, having let the small raptor out just before tea. "I couldn't think of a name for ages and then, as Professor Snape and I disapparated it just popped into my mind."

"You have a relative called Mervyn, I think," Cecilia had said between forkfuls of egg, "you'll have to ask Dad about it."

"Cool," Septimus had replied, cutting the exclamation short and falling silent. Then he'd added, "You worked with Professor Snape, didn't you?" Cecilia had nodded.

"Why do you ask?"

"Is he really very intelligent?"

"Very, very intelligent," Cecilia replied firmly. "A genius, in fact."

"Wow!" Septimus had replied, a grin appearing on his heart-shaped face, "a genius! And he's Headmaster!"

Cecilia hadn't pursued that thread of the conversation at that moment; she'd noticed that he'd had an owl, a tour of Hedgewards and been impressed by the headmaster. All that appeared to be missing was Septimus himself, in school robes and meeting the train at Hedgemead Station and joining the rest of the students who's embarked at King's Cross.

Septimus had helped her wash up and told Cecilia how the school was going to be accepting non-wizards, if non-wizards wanted to come and that Caelius had been extremely busy in organising things. Cecilia had tried not to show her thorough surprise and, possibly because she had just come from a highly exclusive educational establishment, how strange that sounded, but she was very pleased. At last, embracing inclusion. Of course it would be good for non-wizards: why should they not have the opportunity to learn about magic, even if they couldn't do it themselves? But how was that to benefit those with magic?

When Septimus brought up the subject again at bedtime, extolling the virtues of the castle and the jobs that would be open to him, according to his uncle, when he went there Cecilia had asked, ""So you've decided to go? Septimus looked at her gravely.

"You want me to go to Princemead, don't you?" Cecilia smiled and held her son's hand and she could see the weight of her words on his shoulders.

"No, little Tim," she replied softly, looking into his brown eyes, his father's eyes, "wherever you go, whichever school, its your choice. I want _you_ to choose it," she emphasised, smiling and taking her son's hand from on top of the cupboard. "It's your education, it's your future. I was wrong to impose my ideas on you, (to keep you away from the world of magic because of my animosity towards it she added to herself). If you want to go to Hedgewards then that's the school that I want you to go to.

Septimus leaned over from his bed and grabbed her round the neck, hugging her close. Cecilia leaned in for the embrace – how she had dreamed of cuddling her son again, soothing his woes, feeding him as she had done that evening – and hugging hr only child close, as they had used to. She was determined never to be away from him again, whatever the personal cost. And an idea struck her, one she would take up with the aforeseen wizard who had been with her son that afternoon, one that would keep.

Once Sptimus was asleep went downstairs, closing his door but leaving it slightly ajar and moving slowly towards the stairs, more because she was contemplating the conversation that was about to happen in the living room rather than fear of waking him.

Here goes, she thought as her still-bare feet felt the polished wood of the stairs. As predicted Caelius was in his chair adjacent the staircase and, as predicted, as Cecilia was about halfway down the stairs Caelius looked up. He didn't look surprised but Cecilia waited until she'd sat down on the settee opposite him before she initiated a conversation, one which she had played out hundreds of times in her mind, each ending different from the last.

"It's good to see you," Caelius began, leaning forward and smiling. His voice was as soft as she remembered when he had been at the door, shortly after being pulled up from behind the veil. His face was soft and neutral; resembling that of Remus so closely then that Cecilia had been convinced he was his brother. She had not known, of course, that she had surfaced in a place and time where the course of history had taken different turns and that Caelius had survived both infancy and Fenrir Greyback's bite.

He didn't resemble Remus now, not the Remus she remembered in June, cares left behind and a new start pledged: indeed, Caelius looked careworn and wrung out.

Well, that's what comes of weaving yourself up in your own schemes, Cecilia thought, of her brother-in-law's indiscretions in terms of honesty. Aloud, she said, banishing the negativity deliberately, and scolding herself, "you too." She swallowed, and added, "and Septimus seems settled."

"Indeed," replied Caelius, staring at her. What, thought Cecilia defensively, what are you looking at?

"Where did you get those from? Not that I know much about fashion, of course." Cecilia looked down, at her mismatched outfit and bare feet.

"Septimus. I burned my filthy ones, and I knew he would have a spare set." It was mostly true, even though she had thought about looking for something to wear afterwards, rather than before. "I must go home and get something else. How did you know I was here? Edgestones?"

"Magic," replied Caelius cryptically. "Once you'd got back to Britain I knew. And I told Septimus. He knew you were missing, you see." Cecilia opened her mouth in alarm. Septimus thought she was missing? Her poor lad! Then her eye drifted to the beige folder with a scarlet ribbon around it. She knew it wasn't hers, but it was enough of a reminder who was holding some of the cards in the deck, despite her resolve.

"Look," said Cecilia levelly, dragging her eyes from the document wallet, "I'm sorry to be here like this, I had to come…I've missed Septimus like you wouldn't believe, and of course, there's Remus – " Caelius's features moved sharply a little " – and – " Cecilia stopped: she couldn't go on much longer under Caelius's gaze, she never could. "I'm so pleased that Septimus wants to go to Hedgewards, Caelius," she admitted. Cecilia knew deep down that this would be the school he went to. Whether he had been coerced, led, had it suggested, felt it was the right school to attend or had just decided by himself was open to debate.

"He's grown so much…I've missed so much of him growing up," she continued. "How long has he been with you?"

"Most of the summer," replied Caelius. Cecilia nodded. It would have made it easier for Remus too.

"His owl's sweet."

This hung between them. Any magical pet bought for an eleven-year-old witch or wizard sealed the deal on them being a Hedgewards student, more binding in the eyes of all even than their letter. She battled with her mouth, which was all too keen to excuse Caelius from overstepping usual protocol, of course, you didn't know where I was. And why am I presuming you'd bought the owl for Septimus in the first place? Remus could easily have taken Septimus…

…but why hadn't her son mentioned that…?

…in fact, he'd barely mentioned his father at all, other than that Remus wasn't there…

…and probably the reason she'd thought this was written on her brother-in-law's face….

"Has he got his wand yet?"

"No. Because I knew you were on your way at that time, I think he knew you were coming, even though I hadn't told him then…"

Then? Then…? Cecilia swallowed, the weight of worry that Septimus must have felt, the anxiety, hit her. She held her head in her hands, the image of the fireflies, if that's what they were, burning brightly.

"Cecilia, you were away. Septimus knew that," Caelius continued softly, addressing Cecilia's bent head. "He knew your work had a measure of danger and, well, of course he was concerned, but I think he knew you were all right, deep down.

"But it's still there, the past. It will always be there…" Cecilia's words were less distinct as she addressed the thin, patterned carpet. "But now I'm staying I'll have to deal with that, I suppose…" …for the sake of Remus, Cecilia thought, her sentence tailing off and silent thoughts replacing it, but I'll have to, I'll have to rely on the fact that, when I meet them Lily will be her usual charming self and it'll take James less than ten seconds to talk shop.

"Things have changed," said Caelius simply.

"Such as…?" if things had, it would be unlikely to be peoples' memories. "Are the Reciprocators still at Grimmauld Place?"

"Sirius is still our host, yes." Caelius said, waving his hand over the coffee table and making a pot of tea and two cup and saucers, condiments and milk appear underneath. "Would you like some?" Despite herself Cecilia nodded her head. She would dearly like more information about the Reciprocators but she bit it back – she may not be happy with the answer if she asked. Now she wanted just a moment to feel the happiness of motherhood, of her family, of being in a place of familiarity before the awkward questions had to be answered and the complications set in.

It did not stop Cecilia from wondering about them though, those people whom she had considered friends, next to family, in some cases. She was about to say something along those lines, opening the vein once more, to draw a line underneath return when her eye was reacquainted with the document wallet under Caelius's brother-in-law's arm. How could she be sure that it wasn't her file? She remembered Caelius writing copious notes when she had surfaced in the Department of Mysteries, mistaken him for Remus and laid into Lucius Malfoy, mistaking him for the Death Eater she had known in the Old Place. It held details of her arrival and, most probably, a record of her _reassignment_.

"I'm finished with it, Caelius, I'm done" Cecilia said, her tone a mixture of defiance and defensiveness. She knew Caelius and, whether the folder was to do with her or not, Cecilia knew that it wouldn't have been there, between them for this discussion, by accident.

"I burned the lot, all that you hoped I'd bring" she continued firmly as Caelius picked up his arm, its ribbon loose exposing a good wad of parchment and, smoothing his fingers over it, asserted their respective positions. "You had no right to send me there, no right at all. It was for him, Septimus, my _son_ – " her voice loud, staccato'ing the words and pointing above.

" – I have nothing for you," Cecilia concluded, reining in her emotion as Caelius beheld her stoically, as he always did, "except for this." From her bag she pulled out her handwritten pages copied faithfully from the researcher at Durmstrang, Professor Bugge, she had borrowed it from and which she had spent all of one night right up until the dawn of the next meticulously copying down.

"You'll have to have it translated; they speak English at Durmstrang, and Old Wizardish," Cecilia continued as she threw the book over to Caelius, whose hand moved just a little quicker than necessary to catch it. Inwardly Cecilia beamed a smile of eminent satisfaction: just that one movement was enough to show her how valuable he already believed it to be, despite leaving it in his lap, unperused. A look passed between them, the subject of her return closed and Cecilia wondered who would change the subject first. As she was about to ask after Remus Caelius spoke.

"Would you like some supper, Cecilia? I expect you've not had anything since you got back – "

" – I shared some food with Septimus. That was more than enough."

"A drink then?" She nodded and Caelius waved his hand over the low table between them. Cecilia watched as Remus's family's Wedgwood tea service appeared, the fat, stumpy teapot's lip pouring steam. He poured out two cups before waving his hand over the dark brown liquid and she watched as it grew gradually paler as unseen milk was added to it. She nodded and smiled, feeling a little less tense than she had done, as Caelius handed her a cup without milk.

"So, when will Remus be back? Tonight?" Cecilia asked, shifting the topic onto easier common ground.

"Why do you ask?" replied Caelius, his tone remaining so annoyingly neutral as he stirred a sugar cube from the square sugar bowl on the table into his tea. Cecilia got to her feet, putting back down her tea to cool and began to walk towards the window at the far end of the living room, a spot she had stood in all those evenings when she had lived here with Remus, watching the setting sun and praying to a god that she didn't believe in that the potion she was scientifically ripping apart into its constituent parts only to reassemble into a greater form of itself really would be enough to rid the world of Lord Voldemort via Harry Potter. She turned, the setting sun now behind her and she walked back over to Caelius, a knot, a knaw of concern now in her stomach.

"Only Septimus said…Septimus said he wasn't here…is he working? The Ministry? The Reciprocators, I suppose," she concluded, the conversation one sided, Caelius's contribution notable by its absence. Then she recalled something Septimus said, his actual words. He;d not told Cecilia that Remus had been working – "Dad's not with us," he'd said.

"Caelius," she urged. "Please tell me." Please tell me what you're trying not to tell me, Cecilia added silently. Please tell me what you would have preferred to tell me after your night at the Ministry and after I'd had a good night's sleep, as you'd so clearly planned.

"Sit down, Cecilia." Caelius's words, though soft, were as persuasive as a gun to her back. She obeyed unquestioningly. Caelius stood up and approached the settee, standing to right but pointing his wand beyond her and into the space in front of the fireplace. There a scene unfolded, a little like a cinema-film though without the projection screen and Cecilia made out a row of beds. She peered towards the dark picture, trying to make out what Caelius was trying to show her and the scene panned around and one of the beds grew bigger in view. Cecilia listened, open-mouthed, as the vision of her husband, a gash to his head, and bandages around both arms, eyes closed and still was accompanied by Caelius's grave recounting of the horrifying story that had been Remus and Sirius's attack almost a month ago.

As she watched, a healer and non-wizard doctor held a silent conversation next to the bed as the healer took Remus's temperature and changed one of the bandages, which Cecilia noticed was attached to a drip. The group then expanded to include Caelius himself who had appeared at the bottom left of the screen. As with all memory projections the view of St. Mungo's, notably different by its integration of medical experts both wizard and non-wizard, it wasn't in real-time. When Caelius had finished he flicked his wand towards the image, which disappeared.

"I…have to go to him…" Cecilia's mouth was dry and she turned to Caelius who was kneeling next to her, gripping him by the lapels of his tweed jacket. "I must! You have to take me there, Caelius, to 's! Tonight!" Letting go, her mind still in utter bewilderment – whatever she had been expecting her brother-in-law to say she did not expect it to be that Remus was so badly injured because of conjurists that he was in hospital – she got up again, tying to reconcile everything in her brain.

"Look, what good would it do, going now? You've just got back to Septimus; he's asleep, you're shattered...I've got a Ministry shift in an hour…how about I take you in the morning?" Cecilia looked at him, the dinosaur of doubt stalking into her peripheral vision, the feeling that his words were more like what he wanted to her to hear rather than being the crystal truth. What he was saying was sensible.

"They're both sedate, comfortable," Caelius continued. "What difference would a few hours make? What good would it do you, leaving Septimus, when you're clearly exhausted, and malnourished by the look of you, and in need of rest? You could have a good sleep – there are fresh sheets on my bed – and you could go tomorrow." It all made perfect sense, all the arrangements pre-ordained. All the plan was waiting for was for Cecilia to comply.

"Septimus…knows his father's…like that?" Caelius nodded as he got to his feet. Cecilia hung her head for a moment, motherly protectiveness wanting to go up to Septimus and lie down next to him, as she had done when he was a young child, guarding him from imagined dangers in the night. How awful he must have felt, both his parents away from him, one seriously ill and the other missing. He would sleep well here though; Cecilia knew. Septimus had explained that Caelius often had to go to the Ministry at night and that he set a spell when Septimus got up so he would be transported to Caelius, or at least his uncle would know where he was. She had felt momentarily angry by the fact that Caelius left his nephew alone until the realisation that he had done all he could for his protection had dawned on her and made total sense.

She closed her eyes, seeing in her minds' eye the image of Caelius himself sitting next to Remus and holding his hand, indicating, of course, that it was not a real-time view of her husband…not that her brother-in-law had ever said it was…but it could have been interpreted that way; it was implied…it was always implied with Caelius. If he never said it then he could never go back on his word.

"You needn't give up your bed for me," Cecilia replied, shaking her head as she thought of the day that she'd lived through. "I'll sleep on the settee rather than put you out." Caelius shook his head.

"We can consider our domestic arrangements tomorrow. I won't be needing a bed tonight. I can take you back home to get some clothes and things." Taking a few steps towards the stairs Caelius gestured his hand upwards. Cecilia followed, stepping past him and up the stairs but before continuing up she turned sharply and stared intently at Caelius.

"When will you be back from the Ministry? Two? Three?"

"Around then," Caelius agreed.

"Then wake me up and take me to Remus." It wasn't a request, yet the older wizard was far from swayed by fiery demands from Cecilia, and she knew it, so much so that when Caelius nodded it took a few moments to sink in.

"Thank you. Thank you for taking so much time and trouble with Septimus." Caelius said nothing, but nodded his head.

When she got to the top of the stairs Cecilia turned left and peered into Septimus's open door. The window was ajar, clearly to allow for Athenian comings and goings, and the soft evening breeze played with the curtains. Septimus was fast asleep, his covers pulled tightly to his chin and his feet sticking out of the bottom of the duvet. Resisting the urge to tuck him in she turned back and walked along the landing. Cecilia looked into her and Remus's room, or what had been their room in the Old Place. It was as it always had been, sparse and basic, utilitarian, absent of her clutter.

Turning her back on Caelius's room pushed down on the handle of the bathroom door, opening it and closing it behind her. Half an hour later Cecilia hauled herself out of the bath, cleaner and far more relaxed. And precisely three and a half minutes after that, wearing one of her husband's shirts and vowing to hold her brother-in-law to his promise of acquiring some of her belongings Cecilia sank into Caelius's bed, her mind fixed on Remus as the day's events in condensed form flashed over her cerebellum. Moments later and she was solidly asleep.

Looking up the staircase as he flicked his wrist and secured the cottage Caelius's mind dwelt on his sister-in-law, Remus's wife, Septimus's mother, whose appearance ten years ago into their lives had meant nothing but trouble. You may stay Cecilia, thought Caelius, the book she had given him, more valuable than two years' worth of research and something which would remain on his person until he could find a translator he could trust, payment enough for his hospitality. For now.

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	22. St Mungo's

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It was the first time for as long as Caelius could remember that all of the Reciprocators were on duty. It hadn't been the best of news he'd ever had to share though he suspected that most had guessed. The wizards and witches were rarely called together mid-week and when he outlined their roles and duties for the night, the shifts and areas of the country they were to cover – those where high concentrations of known Conjurists had been more heavily manned; Pendle Hill; Snowdonia; Bodmin and Dartmoor and in addition seven of the country's major cities.

It had been unprecedented, the level of attacks both in frequency and severity. There had been twenty seven arrests in London alone the night before and he had met with the country's Prime Minister assuring him that he would use all means necessary to increase the "wizard police" as the man insisted on calling Aurors. In addition he had had a meeting with the cabinet of the Combined Government, listening patiently to their fears that the ministry may come under attack. Caelius had little evidence for such a target – none of his spies and agents within the Conjurists he had infiltrated had even hinted at such an attack.

So here he was, in a back street in Hull close to the city centre, watching dock workers and students weave their way towards clubs and pubs, watching. And hoping he had enough patience to see the shift out, return to work, delegate some more work to the Mullens, Wigley and Malfoy - this time with respect to Hedgewards (they'd be none too pleased) and go back home, taking his nuisance of a sister-in-law to see Remus.

Slipping back into the shadow, under the sign of the narrow winding street Caelius considered the high level approach he had co-ordinated. Albus Dumbledore was too subtle, he knew. He would never allow uncontrolled, unco-ordinated attacks but that hadn't stopped the extremists, the off-their-heads vigilantes who would have picked a fight with another cause had there been one to hand

And once he had delivered and collected his sister-in-law he would head a meeting back at Grimmauld Place. As usual Snape would be conspicuous by his absence – Caelius was neer usually bothered but at this moment, standing in the most ludicrously-named street in the most boring city in the country for some reason it irked him. So, minus his opposite number in the education and research field the Reciprocators would report back at 5am, of which he would share the elements with the Combined Government. What he would not share – yet – would be the return of his sister-in-law. And she would not relish being in contact with either the Reciprocators or the Ministry just yet.

And what then? What crisis would Cecilia Lupin present him with when he returned for what he considered to be a well-deserved rest? How much would she bother him? A pair of figures at the market end of The Land of Green Ginger caught his eye and Caelius followed their wake they made their way towards the quays. He moved slowly in that direction before stopping suddenly as both turned off in the direction of the Dram Shop. Neither were known Conjurists and neither had done anything suspect. Pressing his back against the wall of the George Hotel Caelius realised he had his had on the outside of his cloak, pressed against the book she had given him.

Caelius thought of the course of the future that he had planned for Cecilia Lupin. It had not involved her being welcomed into his house – indeed: it included a rather more permanent detainment for which he would squarely lay the blame on protocol and national security. But this – this…he pressed his hand harder, as if his light touch was deceiving him. This had bought her freedom. He could understand why she'd done it, burned all she had with her but also rescued this. All of it could be logically conjectured if one knew about Cecilia. It was as if she had discarded the graphite and brought back the diamond, so much was its potential.

The trickiest part would be to have it translated. Oh, he could use an imp translator, translating the nuts and bolts of the language. But it would take a wizard to convey the nuances, the subtleties hidden within the Scandinavian language, something which could not be discerned from mere impish translation, and something which was vital for gaining insight into the purpose and nature of its creation by its author.

More movement, this time from the back entrance of the hotel. Who in heaven's name would be using the George as a tourist hotel Caelius could not begin to understand (perhaps they were Humber Bridge fans on an annual convention?) but they were tourists nonetheless and he watched them step down to the pavement from the front door, consult maps and guides before heading in the direction of the William Wilberforce memorial.

He hadn't mentioned to Cecilia about Ragnhild Andersson contacting his hearth. Her daughter, of course, attended Hedgewards, a NEWT student, and her views appeared, from the intelligence he had received, were less extreme than most who worked and taught at Durmstrang. Nevertheless it would be risky to engage the witch, not least because of her own internal defensiveness due to her gift but also she was very likely to guess from where he had his information. Besides, a Mysteriour Caelius knew was gifted in languages and owed him more than a favour.

Watching the two men laugh and carouse their way down the street and into Manor Street, towards main centre of the city Caelius forced the lethargy away. He had enough to do without having to stand there, on watch for civil unrest. But of course he had to set an example both to the Ministry and the Reciprocators by being there, even though it was now nearly eleven and the most exciting thing that had happened in the city's street had been a pair of scissors falling on the floor in the street's hairdressers.

Where he needed to be was back at the office, recalling the Hedgewards work and ensuring that all the amendments and changes would be carried out, both legally and practically for non-wizards going to the school in just over a fortnights' time. He walked slowly back towards the sign on the corner of The Land of Green Ginger and Beverly Street. And at least half a dozen of the non-wizard applicants had come from the other years. A foolish but not inconsequential oversight and hadn't relished the owl he'd had to send to Snape regarding each of the years which would be affected.

Shaking his head and focusing on the task in hand Caelius Lupin focused on the group of students that were heading towards the Waterside.

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The hospital for magical injuries, commonly known as St. Mungo's was located in two places in London, or rather under two places: St. Bartholemew's and Great Ormond Street hospitals. The basements were ideal for liaison between magical healers and non-wizard doctors who worked in the respective hospitals above. It was a practical and useful arrangement for staff: healers may need to be called as consultants for wizard attacks on non-wizards and non-wizard doctors regularly liaised with healers to bring non-wizard relief to their wizard patients.

Remus and Sirius were located right at the bottom of the bottom of the basement, the seventh floor in a building that technically only went down to six. The hospital entrance was far darker than she had expected and, as Caelius quickly left her, promising to meet her at dawn back at the reception, the absence of sound where there should have been the squeak and grind of a passing tube train only served to emphasise that the hospital was indeed magical.

They had initially gone to the other building but, after a search through the paediatric ward, its walls decorated with witches, bats, pumpkins and other things which wizard children would be comforted by, they were directed to the building under St. Barts, Caelius putting his error down to having had never used the non-wizard entrance. Once in the foyer, a dark open space in which there should have been rumbling of a tube train which she had seen passing outside Cecilia shuddered at the silence as the duty reception-imp ushered her down the stairs briskly before a wide pair of doors opened by themselves to reveal a limestone-pavement effect.

The imp appeared to be in good spirits, holding open the impossibly heavy-looking doors so that Cecilia could pass through and pointing out the treatments that were being undertaken on each floor. To Cecilia, who had barely slept when she had slid between the crisp sheets of Caelius's bed for concern about what sight awaited her when she reached her husband, his jovial monologue mere irrelevant garnish.

"…and the seventh…technically not existing, but here it is, anyway!" The imp pushed against the thick oak doors which swung out on their hinges slowly and haunted house-like. Cecilia followed him, looking around at several empty beds, one which seemed far too small for its occupant, a huge, green-skinned giant lying board-straight and covered in a tiny wool blanket. "…we have the obscure and the hopeless down here…"

Cecilia stopped and stared at the imp. The hopeless? The obscure? Neither sounded particularly promising when it came to Remus. Caelius had explained to her that he had been attacked by a vampire brought in by a group of gung-ho, misguided, naïve Conjurists who he and Sirius had been assigned to investigate as part of their Reciprocator work. Sirius would, of course, was in a far better position than Remus, considering his possible lycanthropy which was easily treatable. From what she could deduce, from her sleepless hours that night, little or no treatment was available for vampires.

"…and here is Mr. Lupin..." The imp had continued on his path regardless of the fact that Cecilia wasn't with him and she walked hurriedly to catch up with the tiny magical creature.

"Thank you. You're welcome…people these days…" The imp muttered to himself irritated as Cecilia stepped passed him without acknowledgement and next to Remus, and he turned and began to walk back towards the door, nodding to a healer as he passed.

Cecilia took in his appearance, shaking her head as tears pricked her eyes. Outwardly he was more or less as she remembered him, far paler in his skin tone, though hard to discern in such dim light as the ward offered. Except for his hair, which was longer (he was always so bad at getting a trim) and the colour, which had changed from mousy blonde-brown to white. In his left hand a canula allowing for the intermittent collection of blood and a drip in his upper arm. Gently, shakily, Cecilia took Remus's right hand, stooping to bed level as she scanned his still body. Then, without warning, she buried her head close to the sheets and sobbed.

How much I love you, my darling, she thought urgently as she cried. How grateful I am you came to me! That we vowed to make a fresh start, that we sealed it…as a husband and wife should! How you're lying there, so ill…

Cecilia looked at Remus, his chest barely moving up and down. He was breathing though. Her mind began to race as she considered the situation, his appearance, what had happened. But before she allowed her mind to analyse it she got to her feet and, bending over the bed, still holding his cold hand Cecilia stroked his cheek. I'll do whatever I can, for you, my love.

She was about to lean over to kiss his lips as a healer approached. The stout woman, dressed as she had seen Poppy Pomfrey dressed when she had worked at Hogwarts, and Hedgewards too, matronly, hair back under a cap and a determined expression on her face, approached the bed.

"Good evening," she said, her voice clipped and abrupt, addressing Cecilia but not looking at her. "I take it you're Mrs. Lupin? Mr. Lupin, Mr. Lupin's brother said you would be coming. No, I wouldn't touch him too much; as yet we know little about the transmission of the infection. Bites, obviously, and the ward's dark, of course." Cecilia watched as the healer reached down the bag whose contents were coursing into Remus's arm, continuing to hold his hand nevertheless.

"Can you tell me about his condition? How long he had been here? Has there been any change?" The healer looked at her, an expression a mixture of scorn and contempt.

"I may be attending the patient," she replied severely, her brows knitting, "but I am a healer, you know, I…look," the woman sighed. "Of course. You're an En-doubleyou…"

…an En-doubleyou? Cecilia paused, thinking about the word. What's an…NW?

"An non-wizard..?" explained the healer, a tone of forced patience in her voice. "So of course you don't appreciate…look," she said again. "We healers heal. We don't send other people in to do the dirty work."

Of course, thought Cecilia, her mind racing between the woman's obvious distain at her non-wizard status and consequential doltishness and her indirect explanation that healers played the role of both the doctor and nurse in magical hospitals. Of course, she thought Cecilia believed her to be ignorant and unskilled in magical prognosis just because she had seen to his drip and changed his catheter. She decided to play the part, much to the disgust of her pride and more for practical reasons – that she may gain a greater insight into Remus's state.

"Of course," she said, this time aloud. "I knew, I just, er, forgot. Can I talk to you then?" When the woman didn't move Cecilia took it as a cue to continue.

"How long has he been here?"

"Almost a month. Mr. Lupin Senior brought both Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black here – " she gestured towards Sirius who, though Cecilia knew was just there, adjacent Remus, hadn't taken it in. He too, pallid and still, a mere flicker of his chest moving, lay silent. She looked further at Sirius, who's appearance seemed more maligned than Remus. He, by Caelius's account, had taken a curse full on, resulting in a gash from collarbone to his left cheekbone. She turned back though. She was here for Remus, no-one else. Especially no-one who had so much better a chance of getting through this than the man she loved.

"What are you doing for him? What are you able to do?"

"Keep him stable. We have had a specialist healer discussing his case, he has spoken to Mr. Lupin about Mr. Lupin's condition," she continued. "Little is known about vampire lore in the country and the specialist healer comes from Romania. We are working hard with him to hasten a cure. At the moment, we are keeping him stable." Cecilia's eye drifted to the drip bag. The clear, colourless liquid had moved infinitesimally down, that was clear and she squinted in the semi-darkness at the label.

"Allium sativum," she read aloud.

"It is a stabilising agent."

"It's the essence of garlic," Cecilia replied, her tone measured in order to control her emotions. "I understand the dim light; I understand monitoring the blood for changes for a person who has been bitten by a vampire. Please can you explain how garlic is preventing him from dying and not _killing_ _him_?"

The healer said nothing for the moment. Clearly Cecilia's tone, punctuated with a mixture of defensive anger and accusation was enough to make her consider her response.

"You clearly have some understanding of the condition. Please stop me if you don't understand." She looked back at Remus, lifting a hand holding a cotton cloth and wiping his brow. "His blood has thickened and his metabolism has slowed, in response to the antigen. His body is trying to fight but, if untreated, he will, eventually, develop the condition. Using one of many essences from the garlic, or indeed the onion family, helps to delay the spread of the toxin around his body. He does not have to fight as hard as he probably would have to prevent the vampirism invading his whole system. People don't always necessarily become vampires, you know. Many die as their body gives up on the fight."

"So it's stalemate."

"At the moment, yes. It is the only mans we have of helping Mr. Lupin conserve his energy and his body can heal the other injuries he sustained." Cecilia opened her eyes wide. Caelius hadn't mentioned other injuries. She watched as the healer pulled back the blanket and sheet. Cecilia gasped in horror. A wound, deeper than that which Sirius appeared to have sustained ran diagonally from appendix to armpit.

"Paracelsus knows what those stupid Conjurists had at the place where Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black went," continued the healer, lowering the covers. "But one thing I do know is that unless the government do things to stop it, or at least restrain halfbreeds – and I say this with complete objectivity; they have every right to exist and live in this country, if that's what the Ministry decree, of course – if the laws are relaxed we'll see more of this." The healer exhaled. "Once he does wake, Mrs Lupin, that will be when we know if anything our specialist can do will help. Once he wakes, and when we have a treatment, that's when we'll know if he'll survive. We can do nothing when he is unconscious bar keep him comfortable."

Cecilia said nothing as the healer fell silent, watching as she filled up a small glass vial with a small quantity of blood from the canula. A multitude of thoughts crossed her mind, including, "they'd have never believed a healer would have taken blood for analysis in the Old World," "why couldn't it have been Remus who'd gone in first; he would have had the werewolf bite then, and there's a cure for that here," "no matter what, I love you, and I'll never leave you again no matter what," and "Snape'll be able to do something, and this time I'll keep out of it, unless I have anything useful to say, but I won't involve myself in science and magic again."

With one last look at Sirius, the man who, if he had his way Cecilia knew, would have wished she would have stayed on Durmstrang's island for the rest of eternity (she knew this because it was the last thing he had said to her before she had left Grimmauld Place on that fateful night), Cecilia knelt, took Remus's hand and held it, burying her head close to it until Caelius came to find her.


	23. Threads of a Life

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The shafts of bright sunlight on the walls of the room, yellow and strong, held Septimus's gaze as he drifted into wakefulness. Usually he was straight out of bed, no lounging about for him, but today something felt different.

What was it?

A feeling, in the pit of his stomach. No, not a feeling. The opposite. An emptiness. Like something was missing, something absent. Septimus turned his head towards the window, the breeze tousling the curtains and, shuffling up his bed he peeped under the hem before looking towards the owl cage. No, it wasn't Mervyn, who had clearly had his fill of rodents that evening and had littered the windowsill with pellets; the little feathered ball was perched in his cage, his head fixed forward, his eyes closed. Septimus shuffled back down under his covers and focused on the sunlight again.

Was it Sam who had caused this feeling, with his exam results, his General Certificates of Magical Education, mere days away? Decisions about his friend's future hanging in the balance?

Septimus thought. And then he remembered…the strange feeling inside…

…his mum was back! Of course! And Uncle Kay had said his Dad was getting better; he was going to Hedgewards, so too was his friend of course. The feeling was relief accompanied by a large dose of happiness, happiness about things being right.

He thought briefly to the letter he'd had from Sam. How much happier he'd be when he next saw his friend, telling him he'd be going to Hedgewards too. He glanced over at the letter, which was on the floor by his yesterday clothes. Septimus could understand how Sam would think it strange for non-wizards to be attending the school, and his friend had gone on to talk about next year being the first year of dual classification which would run parallel with the non-wizard education system. This was nothing new to Septimus; Caelius had spoken to him about it when they'd discussed school. But Uncle Kay had gone further and suggested that eventually the wizard system would eventually be replaced altogether.

"And there'll be the new subjects," Sam had written, "mum and dad have been working on what they might contain. Magically-relevant science…scientifically…relevant magic, magic in non-wizard society, science in magical society. I wish we'd had some of these subjects when I was your age, Sep," he'd gone on to say, "but what will be left out? I hope it's "History of Magic" rather than "Defence"." And then Sam had told him of his dream to become an Auror in the European Ministry, a demanding career which involved fight law-breaking wizards. "Sometimes I wonder if I've passed anything at all. If not, I can forget about being an Auror."

Septimus shook his head at the letter. If Sam Potter hadn't passed his OWLS then there was no hope for anyone else. Sam had been encouraged to use magic at an early age, unlike Septimus. Dad had shown him a little but mum had said he should wait until he got to whichever school he would go to. Mum had encouraged non-wizard skills too, saying that whether he chose a wizard or non-wizard school knowing how things worked without magic would always be to his benefit.

Mum's right, thought Septimus as he pulled back the duvet, swinging his legs over the edge and getting to his feet. I wouldn't have attempted a lot of things by now if I'd have waited to learn magic. Not that he hadn't tried magic though, but it had always come out as a little blue smoky puff from his junior wand from the children's Magic Set that Caelius had given him on his eighth birthday.

"Wait until you're trained properly," Dad had said when, just after his mother had left, he'd tried to use a charm from the Magic Set's book and set the living room curtains on fire and he was convinced his mum would be angry. "Wait till you have a real wand. It'll be easier then." And then they'd turned up the curtains, Dad telling him that mum would never notice and, even if she did, she wouldn't mind. Septimus knew his Dad was right too.

He pulled open his bedroom door, stepping carefully over the objects strewn in his path and turned left, heading towards the bathroom. It wouldn't be long until he had his results anyway and Septimus could tell him that he was going to Hedgewards too.

Ablutions over and Septimus dressed himself in jeans and jumper. Although the weather was warm and sunny he and Julian were going out exploring again. He approached the cage where Mervyn was sleeping, reached in his hand, moved it back quickly to avoid the startled peck from the unexpected fuss, then massaged the little bird behind his head. Mervyn opened one eye, made a quiet buzzing sound, almost like a cat purring, then closed it again.

"If I leave the window open, you'll be fine, I expect," said Septimus to his owl, thinking about his mum's question the previous evening asking whether he was pleased him.

"Mervyn _is_ cute," Septimus had said,

"I think he'll grow into a handsome bird."

"But I wish you'd been there to buy him mum, and dad too." Much as he was growing attached to the owl, and was very grateful that Caelius had bought him, now that his mum was back it didn't seem quite right.

"But you might not have got Mervyn," Cecilia had reminded him. "I'll be there at least to get your wand."

Septimus smiled as he remembered his mum's words. She was happy with his decision, he could tell. No held back words or changes of subject. Mum was pleased he was going to Hedgewards and this had made him very happy indeed.

Smiling again at Mervyn, Septimus turned and crossed back to the door, thinking about the mess and that he'd tidy up when he got back, grabbed his makeshift tea-strainer net and fishing rod and headed downstairs.

Mum was outside, having washed by hand what was in the laundry room, and she was hanging out towels, sheets and some of Septimus's clothes on the wide washing line, securing it with wooden pegs.

"Have you had some breakfast?" she asked, turning from the washing and stepping closer to him, before pulling him in and kissing the top of his head. Septimus shook it, partially to shake her off and partially as an indication that he hadn't eaten. However pleased he was that his mother was back he really hoped Julian was waiting for him on the other side of the hill and hadn't seen her making a fuss of him.

"I've got some sandwiches, and Julian said we could go to his for lunch."

"What about some water? I noticed some bottles under the sink." Septimus tapped his bag, which also contained maggots, some cloths, rope, string and a small knife.

"Got one, thanks mum," Septimus replied. His mother's face fell a little at the missed opportunity to mother him.

"And who is it you're meeting?"

"Julian. Julian Scott. He goes to my school, my school here," he added. "He's in my class. He lives the other side of Helvellyn. I told you about him yesterday." Cecilia's face changed from worried concern to a more relaxed expression.

"Of course, of course you did. And is your Uncle Kay's spell still working?" Caelius had set up a spell so Septimus or Julian could reach him should they ever get into difficulty.

"I think so," said Septimus. "I've never had to test it." Though there's been one or two close calls, he added to himself.

"This is the Julian you said you'd gone to the Natural History Museum with?" Septimus nodded.

"Because there's no fossils up here, of course, in this granite. He went at the start of the holiday to Lime Regis. Fossil-mad, he is."

Not mad really, Septimus thought; his friend had different way of looking at things. When he walked around he saw not the pavement but tarmac which had once been liquid and was now solid, different minerals making different rocks, gravestones, buildings, how rain, cold, thaw, frost, plants broke up the rocks, wore it away. It can't be created from nothing, Julian would say, and it can't be got rid of. Just changed. Julian's dad was also mad-keen on geology and worked, he had a sister, Opal, and had his mum not been into Scottish poetry Julian Walter Scott would have been "Jasper Hauyne Scott" instead. As well as being into fossils, Septimus's friend loved exploring nature, as he did, was a joker and far more outgoing and confident than him. In turn Julian loved knowing about the wizard world (his mum's family had some wizardly and witchy connection) and he knew in part this was connected with Julian and his family's decision to go to Hedgewards.

"You have a lovely day then," said his mum, turning back towards the washing. Septimus made to turn but then stopped and he looked at his mother. Cecilia sensed that he was there and smiled, her brow furrowing.

"What's the matter, love?" Septimus exhaled, not daring to wonder whether she would be there when he came back, as the nagging thought in the back of his mind had just struck him to consider.

"I'm so glad you're back," he said, smiling. Cecilia went over to him and hugged him close, stroking his hair and kissing him as Septimus buried his head into his mother. He didn't feel ashamed to show his affection now, he just felt his love, and hers.

"So am I, love, so am I. Now, run along – is that Julian waiting for you up on the tarn?

It was. Septimus knew his friend would rib him shamelessly all day – even now he could see a wicked smirk on Julian Walter Scott's face. Before turning to go though Septimus looked back to his mum.

"Tonight…"

"Yes?"

Septimus hesitated. Then pushed forward on the path his mind had already carved out. He breathed out and swallowed, holding onto all his courage.

"Can we go to see Dad?" He was relieved when he saw Cecilia smile. She bent closer and kissed Septimus on the cheek, stroking the other one tenderly.

"Yes, my love," she nodded. "After tea. We'll go and see him together."

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Cecilia had expected Septimus to want to stay up later than his bedtime that evening. It had been a…successful…afternoon and evening, if successful was the word.

Septimus had arrived back at about four, eaten the freshly cooked summer vegetables, local steak and roasted potato dinner she had lovingly cooked (and had walked to Ambleside to buy that morning) and had laughed when she had given him a strawberry Mini Milk lolly for pudding which she had had to keep cool in a cold bucket of water under the sink (the cottage had no refrigerator).

He'd chatted about the day, how Julian had tried to cast his rod from halfway up a tree and, when it got tangled, as Septimus had warned him it would, had spent an hour untangling it before Septimus had used a basic spell to help him.

"It's why he likes magic so much, he thinks it's cool, mum," Septimus had laughed. Cecilia had agreed with him, casting out the negative thoughts which lined up to refute her son's friend's opinion on the matter.

Caelius had arrived back, as predicted (Cecilia had sent a floo message to him asking for him to take them both to St. Mungo's) and they'd spent an hour with Remus. Surprisingly Septimus hadn't been as quiet and wary as she'd expected him to be, but then she'd realised that, unlike herself their son had had almost a month to get used to Remus's condition.

"He's much better than at the start," Septimus had told her as they'd left, on their way to meet Caelius. "He was covered in more tubes; he'd even got a spell around him. It preserved him, or something. Uncle Kay said he was getting better, all he needs to do is wake up and he'll be fine." Cecilia had looked at Caelius, who had approached them as Septimus spoke and she eyed her brother-in-law suspiciously. Better. Who was Caelius kidding? Was he just spinning Septimus a line to make him feel better, or did he really believe it? There was no point in asking when she knew she'd just get the diplomatic answer.

As well as organising the washing and food Cecilia had spent the day thinking about the future. Now, so late into the night it was becoming morning, her mind would not let her get on with the business of sleep, mainly because there was someone she needed to talk to whom she could not get hold, despite her efforts.

She'd go back to Dalton Drive, her, Remus and Septimus's home in Edgeford, of course. Stay at the cottage, if Caelius didn't mind – she knew he'd probably want Septimus to stay till the end of the holidays and there was no point in moving him back for the week or so before he went to school. Besides, Caelius had provided her with enough clothing, so perhaps he didn't expect her to leave just yet. Or had intended that – Cecilia never knew what Caelius's intentions were.

Once Septimus had gone to Hedgewards she could start a new job (the credentials that the Ministry had provided for her would work in the non-wizard world, Cecilia knew (Dave Mullen, another security minister, one far more frank than Caelius, had explained when he'd furnished her with a passport, driving licence and National Insurance Number), a job in no way connected to the wizard world, something that would continue to pay the mortgage which was being met by the Ministry, under the hand of Caelius.

Something to entirely unrelated to science, magic, teaching, research…what that left her Cecilia wasn't clear. Librarian? Bar work? Secretarial work? At least she would have time to visit Remus, care for him when he was released from hospital, and even if he didn't come straight back, have Septimus back home at Christmas, Easter, summer…be a proper family again.

In the wooden-framed chair opposite the fireplace Cecilia sipped her strong tea and smiled as she pictured Septimus's face when he had begun to tell her about his impromptu visit to Hedgewards just before she'd seen him, when Severus had brought him back, and his excitement at the prospect of his new school. Despite her wishes for her son, for him to choose a non-wizard school, to stand apart from wizards, Cecilia knew that, deep down, she probably wouldn't be able to keep him from going. As Lily Potter had so acidly put it one evening, when she'd spoken her thoughts about Septimus's education (never again), if she were so against wizard schools why had she married a wizard at all?

At least he was going with his friend. Septimus would get a whole different experience at Hedgewards now that non-wizards were to be accommodated. Her main reason for him attending a non-wizard school was to make sure he never held the prejudices so many other wizards did. Caelius's policy, which she had heard Aberforth speak about before the Reciprocators one evening, may well be the best thing she'd ever heard. Wizards couldn't help but begin to understand non-wizards, and they would grow and learn together. Not that she ever wanted to set foot in the place ever again.

Cecilia rubbed her eyes, bringing her knees in closer as she shivered in the cool evening air. One more time she would try and, if she couldn't get hold of Severus she'd go to bed and contemplate how she would broach the subject of her immediate future with him. Approaching the hearth she knelt, withdrawing the small box within which contained the non-wizard floo powder, as developed by Remus's grandfather for their non-wizard grandmother. She had not brought it with her from the Other Place but, one of the first things she'd done when she had first come to the cottage, on her honeymoon with Remus, had been to explore the basement in the hope that she would come across the powder. She had been fortunate to find it and, as it was so valuable (even Severus Snape said he knew of no way for non-wizards to communicate using the floo network and, once she'd shown him, he said he knew of only one way). It was valuable and, as such, she'd used it sparingly. But, of course, with the pensieve network any non-wizard with the technology could use it to communicate with any non-wizard, if they had a pensieve too and the correct pensieve code (each device had its own unique code, like a serial number), making the floo network's days if not numbered, far less busy than they might have been.

The latest models of these pensieves which, far from being the stone font-like structures she remembered Albus Dumbledore using in Hogwarts, were made in a wide range of materials and available in a myriad of colours, she had seen in the window of what had been the hardware shop where, in the other place, she had bought the silver nitrate which she had used to develop the lycanthropy potion, which she had failed to do there and was not necessary to continue with here as Snape had already done it for Caelius Lupin. For it was Remus's elder brother who had been bitten when Fenrir Greyback had broken into the Lupin cottage because of his supposed debt, rather than because of his loyalty to the reciprocators and his defence of the book Mysterious Mythology, unique for it had the code from which Cecilia had used to make the Universal Link between wizards and muggles.

Non-wizards, she corrected herself as she stood before the fire, floo powder in hand. She had no other means of contacting Snape and she knew that Caelius would know that they had spoken because of the itemised conversations that the floo network sent through. One last time. If he's not there, I won't waste any more. As the flames turned green Cecilia stuck her head in fire, and threw, could see Snape's office, that of Aberforth Dumbledore and the memories of her last visit there, just before Aberforth had died, vowing she would do what she could for the Reciprocators bombarded her mind. And hadn't Caelius just called her on that one, effectively banishing her for over two years for the sake of the Reciprocators and the Ministry. She remembered the old wizard half closing his eyes as Cecilia had spoken her promise. "For if you don't," Cecilia remembered Aberforth, who looked so like his brother, saying to her, "the alternative does not bear thinking about."

Cecilia remained in the flames for a good few minutes, hoping that Severus would be around. When she realised that he wasn't she was about to withdraw her head, the questions in her head receding. Just then the door open however and Cecilia watched as the Headmaster of Hedgewards School of Witchcraft and Wizardry swept into the room.

Cecilia watched as Severus Snape took one look in her direction, continued across the room and then turned back.

"Cecilia. You were not the person I was expecting to speak to tonight."

"Severus," Cecilia replied, wondering what to say next. "I'm at Caelius's cottage." The information was needless, un-necessary. A lame response.

"I haven't been avoiding you," Snape continued, his body still, staring down at her, "just immensely busy following my promotion and Reciprocator responsibilities." How he did that Cecilia had wondered for these last dozen years. It did make for more direct and t-the-point conversations but always made her feel her contributions were tame in comparison to his lofty work and she hated speaking to him just after she'd spoken to Caelius – her defences were invariably high and suspicions wove in her mind and if there was one thing to be said about Severus Snape it was that he was nothing like Caelius Lupin.

In fact, he was hardly recognisable as the Snape she knew before either and, while it had made their working relationship at Hedgewards easier in some respects, a clean slate in a manner of speaking, it had taken Cecilia some time to get used to him. Yes, he was closed and shared nothing intimate, like Severus Snape of the Other World, but their dealings were always to do with business, except, of course, where his beloved Tabitha Penwright was involved, whom Severus clearly adored above all others and had, on occasions, asked Cecilia's advice regarding suitable Christmas and birthday presents for her (one memorable time he had sought her opinion on what looked like seaweed but pulsed and glowed. It turned out it was a kind of organic communication medium which Snape had explained, she would enjoy unravelling. Cecilia had agreed though she was not sure she would have liked to receive it gift-wrapped on Christmas morning).

"I wanted to thank you for bringing Septimus back to the cottage safely yesterday," Cecilia continued, on safer ground. She _had_ been grateful, but she knew she was kidding no-one that this was the reason she was contacting Snape by floo. "All the time I was away I worried for him," she continued, "that he was safe, that someone was looking after him properly. Remus, of course, and you. And Caelius. I'm grateful, I have to admit, that he's taken such good care of him."

"Indeed," replied Snape, motionlessly, growling the word. There was no love lost between him and Caelius, though Cecilia had never discovered why. "And now you're back, to be his mother again. I believe he was as concerned about you." But one thing to say for him though was, when pressed, Severus Snape was brutally honest. She could always depend on Caelius Lupin to be hazy when it came to honesty.

"I don't care what Caelius says about it all, what he might have already said. What he might have already done. I've given up my goose-chase…Harry's potion…I was going mad, looking for something that was so obscure, and irrelevant, I – " she broke off, looking at the hearth. The unburned logs on the chimney's floor looked bizarre, unconsumed in the green flames. Cecilia looked back up, grasping to threads of composure and holding on hard. "I think I had a breakdown, if I'm honest. And I was probably crazy doing all I did to get here, but I had to. I burned all I'd researched for Caelius. I hope you did the same with my letters."

"As I said," intoned Snape, "I've been busy, incredibly so. I do still have your letters but have yet to get round to dealing with them. If you wish, I will dispose of them."

"I wish," replied Cecilia. "I just wish has never asked you…the connotations…I wish could have told you it was entirely to do with commonality…if Caelius finds out he'll lock me in Azkaban, for sure." She gulped, trying to hold back the tears. "I got rid of everything I had worked on for a reason, that reason was that I want my family back, no science, no magic…"

"The base is what you had theorised, from what I remember," Snape replied as Cecilia's words trailed to nothing, "you had never made it, you haven't the skill." There was silence. Cecilia knew what he meant. He would uphold her wishes, she knew, and was suggesting that, because she was a non-wizard she couldn't possibly have made Harry's potion's base, for the Harry in the Old World, when the original potion had not worked properly. If only he was right. But Cecilia had acquired some magic when at Durmstrang, somehow, though it faded as quickly as it had come and had never come back, despite her experimental attempts as she crossed the North of England. It Caelius ever did suspect she'd been involved in such things he'd waste no time in putting her out of the way permanently, something Cecilia believed that her brother-in-law had sorely wanted to do the last time she had given him good reason to.

"I am sure whatever you achieved at the Durmstrang Institute was worthwhile," continued Snape. "You have skill, talent, understanding." Cecilia didn't say anything straight away. She had always felt that her voice always out of step since she had arrived in this new time. All that she had pioneered, been the first to discover and explore in the Old World had been done, built on, refined and was a mere footnote in the textbooks. It was a world away from her discovery, a bit like Newton lecturing to the 1960s NASA space programme on his newly theorised Laws of Motion with enthusiasm and keenness as if addressing a virgin audience. Said audience had been polite and excused her idiosyncrasies – up to a point – but her contribution has been arcaic, interesting, but ultimately irrelevant.

"I've put it behind me, Severus. I must, and I will. Remus, Septimus and I are a family, and I intend to do what I can to keep our family together. No matter what he's been thorough, or what will happen in the future, I'll be there for him. This is why I come to you now. I'll pay you, of course. I have no wizarding links, I'd have to ask you to wait until I found a job before I could pay you for your time, your expenses, your skill."

"Remus was bitten by a vampire over a month ago," Snape replied slowly. "What makes you think I can do anything to help that the healers and the expert they have brought in cannot?"

Because you are you, Severus Snape! Cecilia shouted at him silently. Instead she said, "I asked the healer what he was being given. The active ingredient, the Allium Satvium, garlic, the sulphates within, I expect have a vasodilating effect, to widen the arteries. It's allowing the toxin to remain in his body but not coagulating and building up, not making clots which would overcome his immune system. I understand how that works, but…it's too close for me to pursue…how anything can be done to rid his body of it, or prevent clotting when he wakes. I know it's not much to go on…" It's all in the blood, thought Cecilia, dully. It always is, with wizards.

"The theory is sparse and sporadic, though I am working on Remus Lupin's cure," replied Snape simply. "I will bear your view on the matter in mind. Please be assured that I will do what I can." Cecilia felt her pulse quicken. He was already working on it? No matter Snape's non-plussed response that he would "do what he could" Cecilia already felt a glimmer of hope where before there was none.

"If I write to you with my thoughts on the matter, will you read it?"

"I always read what you write to me."

"You don't always reply."

"There's not always a reply needed, Cecilia. And, for the record, I am glad to see you back."

Apart from Septimus, I bet you're the only one, replied Cecilia, but to herself.

"I just want my family back," Cecilia concluded, "even Freya, if she wants to see me."

"As far as I can ascertain she is still a spoiled brat," growled Snape, folding his arm.

"Well, she did break into your school," Cecilia replied, trying to suppress a giggle. Now, from this point of view, with over two years since the incident spanning the gulf the episode did seem comical, especially with the imminent acceptance of non-wizards to Hedgewards in just over a weeks' time. If only Freya had waited a few years she could have gone there legitimately.

"Speaking of family," continued Cecilia, her optimism pervading the conversation, "how is Tabitha?"

"She is investigating," replied Snape. "So I have no real idea. She's never been in mortal danger when she has been with her artefacts. Well, not often, anyway." Cecilia smiled again and thoughts of Severus and Tabitha's wedding came to the fore of her mind. Interrupted by Ministry – Vincento had got something; her work was like that – and Tabitha kissed Snape then disappeared. In the end they'd never married at all; the guests waited, expecting the service to continue. When Tabitha didn't return the wizards and witches, some Reciprocators and Cecilia enjoyed the reception anyway, at Snape's request. Looking back, it was predictable. The wizards and witches knew her and accommodated her. Cecilia liked Tabitha too, not least for the fact she wasn't cliquey, she wasn't a plastic.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have asked. I know I'm married to a wizard but…I don't want to get involved any more. I want nothing more to do with it. I just need to avoid it all, that's my best chance of Caelius just leaving me alone." There. She'd said it. Said it to someone, and someone whom she knew would not repeat her fears to the wizard in question.

"Just when I thought the paranoid Cecilia Lupin had gone." Cecilia watched as she saw a smile play on Snape's lips. It wasn't a sneer, but it did contain a moderate amount of ribbing. Yes, she knew she was paranoid, but how could she not be? Her life here had begun twelve years ago, the one person who really knew all about this, whose political machinations could be affected by her actions. Her only choice was to forget it all and give Caelius no reason to let her be. Cecilia swallowed, and changed the subject.

"I think it's a brilliant thing that you're accepting non-wizards to Hedgewards."

"Indeed. The Daily Prophet's saying that only bad things can happen with Hedgewards, the letters page is divided by both praise and condemnation and the Ministry has made it worse y issuing a statement declaring their stance of integration benefits all."

"I can understand why you're so busy," she chuckled.

"Come to work back at Hedgewards, Cecilia." It wasn't exactly a question. She fought with her mind for an appropriate reply.

"You understand that if it were my decision alone ten that is what I would ask you," Severus continued, "however the Ministry has such a hand in how the school is run, especially regarding the non-wizard admissions, of course."

"I understand," Cecilia replied. She knew what he meant. He would have her, but he knew she wouldn't accept, and Caelius would be furious. "And I'm sorry to have interrupted you tonight," she continued, "especially as you've got Remus's situation in hand. Thank you. And for looking after Septimus. I know how Hedgewards can be, especially for the unprepared."

"I know you never wished for him to attend."

"And look, despite my intentions, he's going anyway. All decided without me."

"Goodbye, Cecilia." The fire dimmed, then the glow disappeared as Cecilia knelt out of the hearth. Caelius would know she'd contacted Snape, but not for the reason, unless he asked either of them. And what else could either Severus or Cecilia say than they talked about Remus. Yawning deeply Cecilia made her way across the living room and up the stairs, the relief of knowing someone whom she trusted so much would have a hand in helping her husband being the ultimate sedative.

Snape watched as the flame dimmed before casting a spell to erase the evidence of a non-wizard powder being used on the floo network. If she was paranoid about Caelius then he'd be rubbing his hands with glee at the thought of catching Cecilia with that. He would, eventually, tell her of this. And she was right, it wouldn't just be her who suffered. Snape could see every thread of Cecilia's life hanging there, ready to read her intentions, understand her motives. It was predictable that she would want the quiet life here, in the end. But she was wrong of course, on one very vital point.

"No Mrs Lupin," said Severus Snape, staring fixedly at the place where Cecilia's head had been, "it's all decided very much with you."


	24. Forging the Future

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Harry yawned as he descended the stairs. It was early on Saturday, Saturday afternoon that was. Turning right he headed towards the kitchen in search of liquid refreshment and, having both put on the kettle for a cup of tea and filling a glass with water for while the kettle boiled he sat down on the ancient pine carver chairs which had belonged to a member of Hermione's family.

Savouring the clear, cool liquid Harry smiled. It wouldn't be too many hours before Hermione got up, having gone to bed after an Auror shift. Not that she needed to do it – she was only a junior minister after all, and compulsory Auror duties were not part of her remit. But Hermione was career-minded. She knew that by volunteering for these kinds of jobs, the trip to Strasbourg included, meant she would be seen by the right people and she could climb the ladder sooner. It also meant Hermione was paid for the shifts she had done, and this, of course, would be going straight into their wedding fund.

Harry smiled as he drained his glass, tried not to scrape his chair on the terracotta tiles of the floor as he saw to the kettle and his tea and wondered whether he should wait for her to get up before offering her food or if he should make tea for them both as a surprise. The latter, Harry decided as he thought about his fiancée asleep in their bed, her hair spilling over the pillow as she turned in her sleep. Harry had watched her for a good quarter of an hour when he'd woken, gawping at the time and wondering whether inviting Ron over when Hermione was out had been the best move he could make – they'd watched International Quidditch into the early hours – and deciding that he would make the effort to get to bed earlier, even though it was a weekend.

A thought struck him. How had he become so boring? If he'd mentioned a bedtime to Ron he would have ribbed him royally. Reaching into the bread bin his hand rested on the last two slices of wholemeal bread. Enough for toast and he could leave a note for Hermione and go shopping. Almond risotto? Harry knew she liked it. Or perhaps an Italian dish? Harry smiled as the toast browned under the grill. He'd become boring, at least in Ron's eyes, when he'd proposed to Hermione. Domesticated. But that was what it would be like when they were married. Ron was still single, and was still living his life as if he was a teenager.

Extracting the toast from the grill Harry bent down to the fridge and fished out the margarine, then a knife from the drawer. He would never have pointed this out to Ron though. That's what came with lack of commitment and Harry was happy, more than happy in fact, with the responsibilities he had chosen. Like his parents, he wanted to be together with Hermione forever, despite their outlooks on career. Harry carried his tea and toast back to the table he sank his teeth into it, the margarine having melted and dripping onto his pyjamas. Harry didn't care. He would change, shower and go shopping. And pick up a bottle of Asti Martini, Hermione's favourite drink. No, not despite. He didn't understand her thirst for promotion, it was true, nor her dedication to her career in politics and Hermione didn't understand how he could be satisfied with his job either. But the point was, they both valued each others' view on their jobs and accounted for that. Harry grinned, thinking of his parents again. How had he grown so like them?

His domestication had not stretched to some of the jobs that Hermione had been asking him to do over the summer holidays, though. Harry was half way through his first week of holiday – the reference library always closed in the summer, especially when there weren't many incoming documents to classify and organise, and he realised that he really should. Hermione worked so hard and Harry knew that she felt as if she were nagging if she had to mention the jobs more than once and now, having finished the Auror shifts for the week, and Sunday being ahead of them, it was inevitable that the tasks not done would prey on her mind.

Perhaps not organise dinner then, Harry thought. He could go to the DIY shop tomorrow with her and they could discuss together what was needed so he could redecorate their bedroom. And on Monday he would do the "extra" jobs, the drains, cleaning the windows and the car, go through the boxes in the loft of everything (and he meant _everything_) his parents had given to him when he had left home and decide what needed to be kept and what didn't. Tuesday would be the day for that. Perhaps after that he could unpack the rest of the cases which had just been thrown under the stairs and the souvenirs, foreign currency, leaflets and so on where they had been when they had packed their things from Hermione's work-holiday nearly three weeks ago. Do something with the books which had inadvertently made their way with them to France with some of the papers, throw them away, perhaps. Now, with some time between their delivery and now, the mystery of their origin and purpose were long gone. It must have been someone like Sam, playing a trick, Harry had long concluded, wondering why he had ever taken the diary and notes so seriously. Perhaps he should have tried some spells in them, find out who it was and play a trick on them? He could look at doing that on Thursday.

That was enough. Hermione understood he needed to have some time off from work and he had spent some of it in the National Archives that week and the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, indulging his passions for old documents, history and art. He could never explain it to anyone who asked but, like his mother, he felt at home with history, he felt he could reach into the past and connect with it. Harry knew that's what Hermione felt about politics too, like she could achieve something worthwhile.

How that translated into a call from the Ministry saying that the unchecked conjurists required a higher than average Auror presence and, to prevent too many people's ideas getting out of hand, catalysed by fermented pumpkin juice and threatening to blast their neighbours into the middle of next week Harry didn't quite understand. But as Hermione explained it, and the shifts she would do Harry knew he didn't want to stand in her way, regardless of how much he'd miss her, especially during his own holiday.

And besides, who would worry about her birthday and pretend not to be bothered about it but really had organised a simple surprise for Hermione's birthday in a month. Not that it was much; a romantic picnic would be better. Not that he had much money – anything spare was being kept for their wedding in May. But he'd do something, small but appropriate, a surprise for his future wife. Harry had in mind a surprise picnic. It would work, in mid-September.

Scraping back his chair, then wishing he hadn't scraped it so loudly Harry crossed over to the sink with his plate and cup. Rather than using a spell to wash it up he filled the washing-up bowl with hot water from the tap, adding a splash of washing-up liquid. He was just dropping in the cup and plate when something "wooshed" past the kitchen window. Harry looked out, noticing that a letter had been deposited (as well as a whitish sticky mess) on the window sill.

Opening the window and reaching out for it, making sure he didn't put his hand in the guano, Harry broke open the seal and read his letter quickly. It was from his mum. Harry smiled. Though being at Grimmauld Place (both his parents seem to be living there recently, the amount of time they spent at the Reciprocator Headquarters) Harry didn't have to worry about what to do about tea.

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"I assure you, my love, all things are in place."

"You do. You assure me." Gellert Grindelwald moved slowly towards the window of the high tower. Air as fresh as the waters below them, tumbling between granitoid extrusions under a curtain of which he had cleansed his body in the valley below just as the sun was rising. In the chair opposite the bereft fireplace Albus Dumbledore rose.

"These things can't be rushed – you know your failing is your patience." He wove his way to the wooden table that stretched from wall to wall across the centre, stretching the longest width of the oval room, the highest one, through whose windows clouds sometimes idly entered and where winds puffed in, if they were foolish enough. He picked up an object, rather like a magnifying glass lens, larger than his hand, bereft of a handle and turned the glass in the centre, which was suspended on two brass pins.

"Yours is your overconfidence in your abilities – others attack, others strike, in Britain, where you have not designed, Albus." Grindelwald made his way carefully from the glorious view of the Alpine geology and back to their work.

"The pieces fall into place," continued Dumbledore, "over-enthusiasm is mere garnish, it adds to the authenticity of our cause. It keeps the Ministry busy, too busy to quickly unravel our business there before the roots take hold. Before it buds."

Grindelwald watched as Dumbledore spun the lens of the portable pensieve again. What a marvellous invention, one which he was so delighted to still be alive to witness. The marvels of the technological age. How he loved his ability to charm, and charms worked the best on those of magical intent. Though Vincento was notoriously difficult to ply; his trust had had to be lubricated with a measure of wealth. But it was never a waste to be that close to the Department of Mysteries, the only such department in the world, where technology was not only born but was conceived, a twinkle in a Mysteriour's eye. How much he had harvested, stolen, bought with bribes, from the Combined Government's most treasured – and most overlooked – department over the years. But Albus was right. That is why they worked together, both professionally and personally.

"No, you should not rush – "

" – the pieces are falling into place…"

Their eyes locked. The perfect alliance, the strongest the world had ever seen. Both wizards knew of their influence, rising thousand-fold when their endeavours complemented one another exactly.

"I will keep my patience, my love." Grindelwald pushed down the pensieve onto the table, Albus's hand with it. "Eventually Cecilia Lupin will return, eventually we will ain the insight that we need – "

" – the means is in place – " Dumbledore looked at the table again. Bright sunlight glinted of the lens of the pensieve. Grindelwald nodded in acknowledgement and placed a hand over that of Dumbledore.

" – the conjurists will be in place, the book will be published and so will the objects."

"And eventually it will be Walpurgis Night," said Albus Dumbledore. It wasn't a flippant comment, in the way that one might say to someone who is waiting for a thing, "soon it'll be Christmas."

"Yes, my love. We will have him, in the end."

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Two days together, two very contented days. Another day when Septimus gone out with his friend Julian again, using the very last of the summer holidays and the glorious weather in the best way they could. Cecilia had played mum quite happily, cleaning the cottage using non-wizard methods, even going so far as cleaning the nets and bed clothes, cooking healthy meals from her limited repertoire, in short, acting as the person she always wanted to be. Yesterday she had visited Remus at St. Mungo's with Septimus, talking to him about general things that had happened and those that were to happen in the near future and had again re-visited both evenings with Caelius's help.

The previous evening on the way to the hospital she had spoken to Caelius who talked to her about staying in the cottage "for the time being", until Septimus had gone to Hedgewards and Cecilia had agreed that it would be for the best. And then, back to Edgeford, to Dalton Drive, and her old life. Though the situation seemed reasonable, favourable to Cecilia even, she couldn't help feeling on edge. She knew Caelius Lupin was highly practised in the art of diplomacy. He knew the right way of delivering information that made her feel reassured, like a verbal opiate but Cecilia's brain had enough experience of her brother-in-law to know in her head to be cautious.

Which is why she was spending her time cleaning, taking the trouble even to wipe the lines of dust off the pictures which ascended the stairs. It took her mind off the guessing and double-guessing about Caelius's words and manner, something which Cecilia had driven herself mad analysing in the past. Cleaning was a task which always needed doing, never disagreed that it did need doing and let her get on with it without protest. Although the picture of the Lupin brothers' grandparents looked as if they might have protested at Cecilia giving their picture a polish if they could.

Septimus asked Cecilia if Julian could stop for tea that evening. Cecilia had fish pie and vegetables to offer them followed by blackberries which both boys had so thoughtfully picked accompanying the ice cream. Julian, a dark-haired lad, with the cheekiest smile she had seen in a child, thanked her, had laughed at the method in which Cecilia stored the ice-cream, in a bucket under the sink, and told her about how he was looking forward to going to "big school".

"He's going to Hedgewards, mum," said Septimus as he scraped the remainder of the ice-cream from his bowl. "Well, if he's accepted. He still hasn't heard."

"I don't really want to go to Penrith," said Julian, "and mum and dad did get a letter saying we might not hear until near the end of the summer." Cecilia watched as Septimus shot him a look of pity.

"I was looking forward to going shopping to Diagonalley together," he replied. "Getting our wands together and robes and stuff."

"Well, if I can get an owl like Mervyn it'll be lush," replied Julian, scraping his bowl too before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Cecilia smiled with happiness, offering the lad a napkin. Her son, and his friend. How had she become the parent of an eleven-year-old? Within a decade he'd be left school and grown up. And she would be around to see it, to be a part of it, not pushed out, ignored and overlooked, as Caelius seemingly preferred.

She pushed out the negative thought and focused on what she felt right now, a mixture of pride, that her son had grown into such a boy who brought his friends back an was interested in nature, rather than computer games, and privilege that she was here to witness it. Forcing back emotion Cecilia grinned as she listened to their conversation.

"It's cool you've met the headmaster already," Julian continued, "was the school cool?"

"Yep," nodded Septimus. "It was cool. All castley bits, ups and downs on the tops – "

" – crenulations," chipped in Cecilia.

" –crenulations," repeated Septimus. "It's all old and stony, big, like an old castle with knights in."

"That does sound cool," nodded Julian.

"And they have ghosts, and different houses, and paths that you can walk down, great for exploring. And there's a forest."

"Double cool!" exclaimed Julian. "Think of what we'll find in there!"

"You're not exactly supposed to go into the Forbidden Forest," Cecilia chided, looking sternly at Septimus for a moment. She wasn't having them both go wandering off, as they did with utmost safety in the hills and fells around the cottage, into the forest, or anywhere else for that matter. "You'll lose house points for a start, if not a number of limbs." Both boys were staring at her now and her lips curled into a smile and they laughed too.

"You'll love it," concluded Cecilia, picking up her bowl. Though she and Septimus did the washing up together of an evening (well, as much as two days being a tradition in these things) she then told the lads if Julian was stopping a little longer they could go to Septimus's room.

"Mum used to work at Hedgewards," said Septimus as he rose. Julian however did not get up.

"What's he like, Mrs Lupin?" asked Julian. "The Headmaster?"

"Uncle Kay said to watch out for him," added Septimus, sitting back down. Mid-plate convoy, Cecilia dumped the crockery in the sink and returned to her seat – both boys were looking to her for comment.

"Mum?" Cecilia laughed, thinking about her and Severus's working relationship.

"Honestly, I have to say he is the most dependable person I've ever known, in this world, or the last." She looked at Julian, and added, "and don't worry about missing out going to Diagonalley. Even if you don't hear before Friday, when we're going, you come with us."

"Really?" Julian Scott's face lit up with delight; Septimus was grinning too. Cecilia nodded. "Wicked!" For there was not a chance in the world that she wouldn't be taking her son, despite Caelius's avoidance of her questions yesterday.

"…cos I went there with Sam, when he went to get his things, years ago…"

Cecilia began the washing up, the conversation fading, to be replaced with thumps of feet on wooden stairs and a slam of a door as the wind from Septimus's no-doubt open window for the convenience of his owl caught it. She remembered that visit too, when they had been close, bonded, when she had a position within the Reciprocators, when things were going right for them all. Wiping the dish cloth around the plates before placing them to drain Cecilia banished the thought from her mind and forced herself to focus in the future. Not the very near future though, when Caelius would take her to see Remus, but the happier future, the future with her son in it, and Cecilia, two parts of the Lupin family.

As she crossed the kitchen and entered the living room Cecilia began to re-hang the net curtains which were folded neatly in the washing basket behind the door. Of course she trusted Severus Snape, how could she not? For if she didn't, if she couldn't, she might well give up on the third member of their family and condemn her husband to an imperceptibly slow death in a hospital bed a mile under London.

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	25. Repairing the Past

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From the shadows it was easy to see, though dim light and gloom might have prevented it, the arrival of Cecilia Lupin. Following her return Cecilia had been spied, from the first moment she had viewed her husband with horror, outrage and desperation at his pitiful state and each night since, four nights. She couldn't do what was needed and that was clearly frustrating her, and she spoke with hope and gentleness when she visited with Septimus, talking about "when" Remus would wake, rather than "if".

It was understandable, of course; and would anyone be any different? But the truth was, Cecilia Lupin _was _different. She wasn't a wizard, at any rate, and Remus knew it. Why else would he be so indifferent to her leaving? That was one explanation, and there were plenty of others. But religiously Cecilia came every night and had spoiled the plans of they who spied.

I just can't do what's needed when she's around.

"And I'm going with Septimus to Diagonalley tomorrow," Cecilia was saying, telling the recumbent, motionless and still unconscious form of Remus Lupin their imminent plans. "I wish that you could be with us, darling, to see his wand choose him, so he can go off to your school."

Cecilia was kneeling by the bedside, gripping his hand, just as she had done on her first visit. And how long would she delay what was needed to be done? Why did it have to be _now_, at this time, for her to visit? Did she not realise others could only spare that time, and their time was precious if they were to go about their business unnoticed?

Of course she didn't. Cecilia clearly looked tired, her face older than two years before, older than nearly seven hundred days' worth of age, her face frowning and curling as she whispered to him lovingly. She wouldn't be sleeping – who would in her position? And that was because she was clinging to hope and worrying about the myriad of different courses that the future would take. If only she were to know that there was little hope of what she wanted. Perhaps it would be kinder.

Shouting silently at Cecilia again that it wasn't just her who needed to visit Remus Lupin in the early hours of the morning the figure glanced at their wristwatch. It wouldn't be long until he had a top-up for his drip, his garlic-based serum which was keeping him stable.

"…I'll have to go soon, my love." Cecilia's voice, though low, was easily audible from the interloper's vantage point. At last! "…I grew to love you…I've always loved you…" she hud her face against the back of his hand. He had forgiven her for her outburst, this was true. But whether things would be the same for them, even if he did wake.

"…I just felt so shut out…my position here is hopeless…useless…" The figure watched Cecilia carefully. Her arrogance had disappeared for a moment and they felt they had witnessed a moment in history, when arrogant Cecilia Lupin revealed her true feelings about her work.

"….but they shut me out, those reciprocators…and there's Henrietta, of course…" she was seen glancing over to Sirius. "I know that you never thanked me for Henrietta Edwards. But that's OK." If only Hen was here to hear this! "I've tried to get on with Caelius, I really have…" she buried her head back into Remus's hand, and the bedclothes.

"…and Septimus will come and show you his wand…" Cecilia looked back up, clearly tears were covered her eyes like a sheen, "…before he goes on the train to Hedgewards on Saturday…."

And then, at last, Cecilia was on her feet, talking briefly to the healer, the same healer who had seen to Remus and Sirius's treatment from the start. At last. At last Mrs Lupin was leaving. Her presence had put out the interloper, the figure spying on her from nearby. Less time now to be with him. Five minutes. It was barely enough. But it was something. Hesitating in her step forward the someone watching her caring for her husband slunk back into the shadow as Cecilia Lupin passed close by.

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Mid-morning on the last Wednesday of August and Cecilia could have sworn she was on a boat. She felt, in her semi-awake state, that she might even be there, perhaps on the ship which bore her from Durmstrang to Scarborough, and she lay back, waiting for the ship to grow calm in between gusts.

"Mum! Mum!"

Only…Septimus wasn't aboard the ship. Was she imagining –

Cecilia opened one eye, and then the other. On the other side of Caelius's double bed her son was bouncing on it, like he did when he was younger, when he was a toddler, or a little older, before he could work the television by himself. The bounce of, "I'm awake, and so should you be."

"Mum, are you awake now?" Septimus bounced once more on the bed before pushing back the covers and climbing under as Cecilia pulled herself up carefully, massaging her head.

"What time is it?"

"Half eleven," said Septimus. "I've had breakfast. Uncle Kay's up. And I got an Owl. Look."

Half past eleven? Cecilia yawned and pulled herself further up the pillows, rubbing her head again. So late! So much to do.

"So, what do you have planned today, Little Tim?" Cecilia pulled Septimus close to her and bear-hugged him with her right arm, ruffling his hair with another. "Out with Julian? Tidying your room? Bringing down your laundry?"

"Mum!" he moaned, pulling away. Cecilia saw him grin as he wiped the kiss she had given him off his cheek with a dramatic gesture, like he did when he was younger. "Better than exploring, or tidying." He thrust the letter into her hand and grinned again.

"Oh. Oh." Cecilia smiled at her son. "That's lovely that Sam's invited you over. That's lovely, dear." She folded the letter with a shudder before handing it back to him.

"No," replied Septimus, looking at his mother earnestly. "Not just me. You're coming. Aren't you? Look," he opened the letter and pointed, "you've been invited too."

Cecilia attempted to squeeze a smile from her frozen smile, the resulting grimace making Septimus frown.

"Of course she is," says Caelius, whose dishevelled appearance made Cecilia do a double take as he poked his head around the door. He looked at Cecilia.

"Of course you are. You wouldn't be anywhere else? And besides, they're expecting you."

Half an hour later, breakfast so late that it was technically lunch and ablutions done Cecilia and Septimus stood adjacent one another waiting for Caelius to return from the Ministry. What she had been through in terms of work, the jobs she had done, she would never, never contemplate a position at the Ministry. The sheer amount of time it took from your life. They said you were married to your job as a teacher but my word, you were sewn to it if you were a Minister.

Cecilia had decided that she could not show any emotion, she was determined. Her excited son wondered aloud what Sam would be doing, that he would be nervous, because he would be receiving his exam results the next day, that he might be able to win a game of diopoloy against the older boy because he had been practising and while she appeared to be the epitome of calm under the surface she was anything but.

It wasn't long until Caelius appeared and floo'd them to the living room fireplace at Grimmauld Place. Cecilia, feeling ill from their journey, staggered a few steps, trying to steady her mind enough to think about what she would do and say now she was here and she turned to her brother-in-law about to thank him. But, too late. As swiftly as he'd appeared Caelius went, the only evidence of his exit was a cloud of faint green indicating floo travel.

She looked around. Septimus had said nothing to her before making his way noisily up the dark red carpet-lined stairs – so many memories – and, still feeling queasy (not entirely now due to her mode of travel), walked tentatively over to the sofa. So much had happened here, so much here, and before. Cecilia leaned forward and cradled her head in her hands.

"Madam, do you require water? Or perhaps a bowl?" Cecilia moved her head right, to where the voice was coming from and she realised that Grimmauld Place's house elf had addressed her. She smiled, and sat up a little. At least someone was being civil, even though it was what he had to do.

"Hello, Kreacher," greeted Cecilia. "A glass of water would be good." Her eyes followed his wake, as the kitchen door swung open on its hinges. She was here – how had Caelius managed it? But to say her mind was ill at ease was an understatement and she felt her heart race as she sought the possibility of an exit. Thinking wildly Cecilia planned her escape – she could leave through the front door, she could take her leave any time she wanted, get herself to Paddington, on a train, on…

…the door swung open and Cecilia turned her head and watched as, not Kreacher bringing the water, but Henrietta, storming in. The witch stood there, mocking her, berating her, wagged her finger at her and listed her faults and weaknesses, laughing at each and every one of them…

…the door swung open. Cecilia screwed up her eyes as the morbid fantasy disappeared. But it was not Kreacher bearing water but James Potter.

"Cecilia, it's good to see you." Cecilia had got to her feet, feeling lead in her feet and a light head. It had been a long time but James hadn't changed.

"You too." Cecilia tried a smile as she took the glass, then shook her head as she lowered her hand, the water shaking a little. "It seems like only yesterday I was standing there – " she pointed with her eyes, " – and…" Her voice trailed off and between them heavy silence fell.

"Look, James, I'm not here to cause trouble, or dig up the past. I came with Septimus, and because someone saw fit to invite me. I don't want to trawl through everything." Cecilia looked away but James took a couple of steps towards her.

"Cecilia, you've come. It's me and Lily who invited you. And I'm glad you did." Cecilia jerked her head, the tears fixed in their ducts as Cecilia fought for composure. "It's good to see you well."

"It's good of you to say James, " replied Cecilia, sipping her water, "but I was completely out of order, disrespectful…my behaviour was shameful, it was – "

" – a very long time ago," said James, who sat down on the living room's large purple sofa. "We wanted to talk to you just as you'd finished speaking, if I'm honest. We were concerned, not just me and Lily, but the Weasleys; Sturgis, Bathsheba..."

"Sirius?" When James said nothing she inclined her head a little more.

"Sirius was livid with you, and for a long time, if I'm honest," James conceded as Cecilia sat down slowly. "Tonks was about to follow you when Caelius whisked you off, but it was too late. He came back and told us you were going to Durmstrang.

"I'm glad, if I'm honest. I couldn't have faced you all, not then." Cecilia looked down. The plastics. The damned Reciprocators. But in her heart of hearts she couldn't honestly say all of them were nasty and horrible to her all the time. James, she remembered, had even tried to speak to her after the event. He had always been one of the most reasonable. She had even overheard a heated discussion between James and Lily once, just before Aberforth had died. Lily had been questioning the point of Cecilia's existence in the Reciprocators now that she wasn't working with Severus Snape. "What is the point of her?" she remembered Lily quite pointedly (and bitchily) saying.

James however, had been defending her, to which Lily had scoffed at her usefulness. Cecilia suspected she knew more about her than met the eye and she hadn't been happy about her book about Harry.

"All I ever wanted was to do the best I could," said Cecilia when she realised that neither of them had spoken.

"And you did. We all appreciate that." All, thought Cecilia, doubtfully. I'm not totally convinced on that.

"Sam seems to have taken to Septimus," Cecilia said, changing the subject. He practically jumped on me this morning when he was showing me the owl you'd sent."

"Caelius and I agreed that, seeing you were back it would be good for the Reciprocators to see you and know you were well."

"There's to be a meeting tonight?" She felt a measure of panic in her voice and Cecilia's heart was racing. James nodded, sipping at his mug of probably-tea.

""One every night. The security level's up, thanks to the Conjurist attacks."

"I can imagine. I read a few bits in the Prophet."

"We're on shifts, supporting the government. Lily's due to get up, she was on last night. It's support work, really though."

"And you don't mind? Considering what happened to Sirius and Remus?"

"Its street defence. We focus on areas were violence may encounter and hand over the perpetrators to the Aurors. Safe enough, but quite dull." Typical James. Getting out of bed if the danger level was 10,000 or more.

"I'm sorry," said Cecilia, putting down her now-empty glass decisively on the ancient mahogany coffee table. "I can't stay for the meeting. I've had enough of all of this and I'm not going to do it any more When Remus is better we can start again as a family. But there's no way I'm getting involved in magic any more than I have to."

"But – "

"I'm sure you can vouch to everyone I'm all right."

"I understand," James nodded. "Perhaps you want to go to the library? The meeting starts in ten minutes. Then you can as Septimus if he wants to stop over tonight. Sam gets his results and –

"I'll ask him," replied Cecilia, her confidence returning. Septimus would stay over here? "If I don't see Sam though, please wish him luck."

An hour later and James was indeed right. There was a meeting going on downstairs. She might have possibly been able to hear what was going on if she'd tried and, though curiosity _was _present in her mind by entertaining it with the contents of Sirius's library (and imagining his face as she leafed through his precious books).

They had calmed her, with their indifferent pages, neutral paragraphs and non-judgmental bindings. Cecilia knew how she'd feel once she got to Grimmauld Place and her brain had not let her down.

Being in the place where her adopted daughter Freya had exposed her deepest, most horrible thoughts about people and how sensitive her research, was which had led to her being dismissed from Hedgewards, was indeed dreadful. Made redundant was what Severus had called it but it was clear that they had known the truth, passing it around as they might a joke and it was still all too clear that she had been pushed out for a nameless misdemeanour.

That had been her worry for that day too; they weren't her friends, not like in the Old World and again Cecilia cursed herself for the moment when she had believed she would fit in, or at least for the assumptions she had made.

After about an hour Cecilia put her hand on the handle of the oak door. She couldn't stay up here much longer and she wandered towards where voices of a different kind were coming. Cecilia glanced through the semi-open door to see Septimus playing a board game, draughts by the look of the hurricanes and typhoons which had been conjured in the room, engrossed in it and looking for all the world like a younger brother playing with an elder. As she watched her defensiveness at her son socialising in the Potter's son's company ebbed away and Cecilia realised its origin had been in her distrustfulness of his parents and her apprehension about the reception she would actually receive from the wizards when she arrived at Grimmauld Place.

Stepping past the door she smiled at the happy scene and made her way towards the stairs, her decision to wait until all the Reciprocators left before coming down.

She overheard some now semi-informal conversations carrying on, based on the outcomes of the meeting. As Cecilia descended she overheard brief snippets of a conversation between Molly Weasley and Bathsheba Braddle about an article in the Daily Prophet in which the reporter had expressed his sorrow for the non-wizard children whose education would be ruined by the Ministry's policy of integration and misguided non-wizard parents.

Cecilia felt herself inclined to agree. How had she been treated when the students had thought she was a squib with the rubber wand? Admittedly it had been Draco Malfoy, whose stance could not be described as moderate, who had been behind the trick and things _were _different. But it wouldn't be easy for them.

It was Regulus Black who noticed her first. As he exclaimed her name all of the Reciprocators who hadn't dashed off at the end of the meeting turned to see her. Eight or nine wizards, none of them scowling yet, and Cecilia felt a little more at ease.

"I'll let Petunia know you're back, Cecilia," Regulus said, before launching into a near-monologue about Sirius's sad situation, expressing regret for Remus's even more dire situation.

"And of course, you're technically still one of us," Regulus concluded, clapping Cecilia on the back. "You have to be present to quit the Reciprocators, your letter just wasn't enough. Not according to old Joe, of course." Joseph Black, Cecilia added to herself. The founder of the Reciprocator movement. Which is why she was invited that afternoon.

"We'll consider it an abstention on whatever it was you talked about," Cecilia added, smiling, this time with more ease than she had ever imagined. The best she had hoped for was being ignored politely. But they had spoken to her. Well, James and Regulus had.

Then James asked her opinion on the practicalities of non-wizards at Hedgewards, about what she thought about the children, and the effects it had on everyone. As she chatted Cecilia mused on her partially-conceived theory about those who carried the wizard gene but where magic didn't express itself readily.

If these people who would not necessarily get a letter in the old world to go to Hogwarts at eleven, those like Petunia Dursley, or Tabitha Penwright, or showed up later in their school lives, up to the age of fourteen thy might be in the environment for long enough for magic to tip the balance and for them too to show their magical qualities. This made Caelius's inclusive policy at Hedgewards more interesting as there may be many non-wizards attending who were siblings of young wizards or witches, showing no magical qualities whatever and they might then get the opportunity to do magic.

"The Severus might avoid a situation like the Freya debacle," laughed James, before quickly apologising for his thoughtlessness when he saw her face.

"Perhaps," agreed Cecilia, "perhaps she wouldn't have tried it if she had been allowed to go. It's all right, James," she added. "It's just a adopted mum's wistful idea that if I'd been more involved with the girl she might not have decided to go off the rails in quite so a dramatic way that she did. "The world was full of if-onlys. And if we paid attention to them all no-one would get anything done."

"Well spoke, Mrs Lupin, well spoke" said Sturgis Podmore, holding out a hand. Cecilia shook it, smiling. "I think that there are a lot of things which might have got overlooked had it not been for Lily. I mean, I know Aberforth thold the staff just before he died about the policy changes. And of course there's the modifications to the buildings, passwords and access arrangements to consider, books to adapt, the library to, well, tame. A lot of things to do in a small amount of time, eh, Caelius?" They both looked tound. Caelius had appeared next to them.

"Are you ready to leave?" asked Caelius, as James went over to talk to Arthur Weasley.

"In a few minutes. I'm just going to go upstairs to kiss Septimus goodbye. Well, say goodbye," she added. And write a note of resignation and give it to James. He seemed the most reliable right now.

When she descended the stairs a quarter of an hour later, having agreed with Sam that James would return Septimus back to the cottage in time for them to go to Diagonalley the necxt day, much to Septimus's delight, she noticed an intense discussion between Lily Potter and Caelius, near the fireplace and out of main sight as she pressed her resignation letter into James's hand.

It was the last thing she remembered as she got into bed that evening, trying not to speculate on what it was about despite it sticking in her mind, before thinking about their shopping expedition the next day.

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	26. The Ministry for Magic

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Another night, and another night talking about the threat of the conjurists. From his office to the right of the stairs on the fourteenth floor below, Caelius Lupin made his way to the black stone-lined office at the floor's centre, the centuries-old meeting place for the Ministerial cabinet. This place, and that of the Wizengamot, was said to have been a place for governmental and legal meetings before even the building stood. A good many wizards had come and gone on that spot (leaving a sticky mess, in some cases); policies debated, laws brought into being. This meeting, to which Caelius was walking, not too quickly, and not too slowly, was just one tiny grain of sand on a beach of political precedent.

Caelius was, as usual, the first to arrive. He usually was, for his tradition of dawn meetings, though now long accepted by his peers, was still not entirely popular. It didn't matter – when another Chief Minster was appointed they could choose their preferred meeting time. It was causing a little disgruntlement at the present time due to the frequency of cabinet meetings, of which there had been several, of late.

The oak table, twenty feet at its widest diameter, oval, and thick, hovered above the floor. A further score of chairs ran around its perimeter, empty, as yet, waiting to be occupied by half-awake wizards beginning their day at four with a meeting before their day's work began before it wore on to night and security work.

"Our agenda today," began Caelius, rehearsing in his mind what he would say to the assembled cabinet, "is as follows: the conjurist threat, our response to it, implications of the threat to domestic security and finally, educational matters." As he outlined the details for each of these points in his mind the Chief Minister of the Ministry for Magic, sharing an equivalent role to that of the non-wizard Prime Minister in this Combined Government, paced around the obsidian office, dark as night but illuminated with flaming torches thrust into the walls at intervals.

It didn't take long before the first wizard ambled through the door. Mick Mullen, with his jaunty air and laid-back manner, strolled into the meeting room, coffee in one hand and cloak over one shoulder which he swung over the back of one of the chairs before saluting Caelius and winking.

"Morning, Caelius," he said, "a lovely morning for it, if you don't mind me saying so." Mick winked at him before leaning forward and taking a swig of his hot drink. "Imp-brewed. Lovely."

"Good morning, Mick," nodded Caelius, before his eyes flicked to the door again as the other Mullen brother, Dave, entered, in not quite such a casual way.

"You here already, Mick?" yawned Dave, "oh, morning Caelius," he added, nodding towards the Chief Minister. Sitting opposite his brother he placed a pile of paperwork sheaved within brown files neatly on the desk.

The room soon filled. Lucius Malfoy was next to arrive, his aristocratic gait and dress disguising a quite forward-thinking wizard with a modern outlook. Another fifteen wizards and witches later, Department Heads and appointed Ministers, sitting and standing as they arrived, informally chatting as they waited, as ever, for Gregor, Head of the Department of Mysteries to make an appearance.

"My good wizardfolk of our Ministry," began Caelius at length, as all of the cabinet who he was expecting, bar one, arrived in ones and twos, settled and waited. "It is good news, good news indeed. Our efforts, given not lightly, to the threat that hangs in the shadow of our nation, are beginning to pay. Our sustained work, our collective endeavour, to uphold our laws in the light of the increasing threat to our national security has been both efficient and effective. Citizens, both wizardly and non may rest easier." Caelius began to pace, reading from his internal brief, uncommitted to paper, memorised. He watched as the cabinet members checked the agenda with the unfolding minutes, held forth before them, vertically, the items from the agenda disappearing from one and appearing on the other.

"Our efforts have been complemented by the involvement of the Reciprocators who are only too willing, as ever, to support our cause in defence of wizard-non-wizard interests."

"Hear, hear!" exclaimed Mick, putting down his now empty coffee mug with which he had been playing.

"Our efforts had averted several dozen incidents in the last week alone from escalating and thus in all likelihood, a deterrent to many more. Mr. Furnace will avail us of the details."

Peaceable Furnace, Cabinet Minister for the Hovel Office scraped back his chair on the polished stone floor making the witch next to him wince at the sound. He too had a pile of papers assembled before him and his thin fingers leafed over the cover of the first.

"My esteemed colleague Mr Lupin has succinctly opened this meeting and addressed many of the points contained within my report," began Furnace, his face glowing as hot as his name. A skilled minister and diplomat it was unfortunate that his countenance did not give him its full support.

"There have been many attacks, sporadic, unpredictable and so therefore has been difficult to manage until now." He surveyed the wizards and witches who were either trying to disguise their fatigue by staring at him or the minutes growing minute-by-minute, or were keenly staring as the effect of coffee on the system had taken hold.

"Up until now?" Lucius Malfoy's gravelly voice slid into the conversation as the arm of a cripplingly expensive record player over a pristine disc. Peaceable nodded.

"Now we have established a pattern, of sorts." He nodded round the table as several witches and wizards made notes. "It has been towns, mainly, rather than cities, which have resulted in the highest level of conflict, towns which are surrounded by countryside – Clitheroe, Wadesbridge, Leadburn, Uttoxeter, Hawes…." Furnace turned the page, "…Hexham, Inverurie, Pont-y-pandy, Holford, Brockenhurst…" he looked up. "It is known, widely suspected, conjectured, that these are the nearest places to where illegal covens have met and are targets because they are close and convenient. Conjurists with too much butterbeer in their systems and more besides looking for targets to practise their beliefs. Although the attacks are by no means limited to rural towns. Cities have had their fair share of conjurists and similar unrest."

"It could be far graver," interrupted Caelius, anticipating the interjections that he expected from Hervert Herbert, an ancient wizard who was approaching two hundred if he were a day and whose role as head of Defence seemed to involve his disagreeing with everything anyone said, and a couple of other witches, Dulcie Dainty, Head of the Control of Magical Creatures department and Jane Jones, Deputy to the Head of Wizardly transport (her superior had been delayed at the last moment by a fault in the Inter-European Floo network and was currently flying back to London by broom. All three lowered their hands as he spoke. "Had we not acted to derail a co-ordinated attack, had we not acted together, if we continue to do so, we may prevent conjurism from taking hold, as an ideology as well as a cause."

"But does this not show that some areas of our society feel disenfranchised?" A witch, the Head of the Magical Environmental Protection Agency raised her hand. "Clearly that some will follow this – I've seen some of the people who've been arrested and they're educated, worldly. They're not sheep, to be led – "

" – there are plenty of sheep, as well as dragons!" Demescue Goole, Head of the Aurors, tired from his lack of sleep that night but infused with caffeine banged his fist on the table. "We've got them, we have!" Many of the ministers nodded, including Caelius. A few did not. Miss Forteskew was one of them. She sat, stony faced, waiting for the room to fall silent.

Evelyn Forteskew, a thin witch of Caelius's age and who had been his main and closest rival at his election two years before to Chief Minister. It had been close, very close, and it had only been because of joint role as Head of the Reciprocators with Snape, that he had influence over moderating force, which had swung it. Evelyn's stance in all things wizardly was conservative, cautious and guarded and her provocations reflected this in her role in the Magical Environment Protection Agency which, amongst other functions, was involved in the preservation of magical culture. As predicted, Evelyn Forteskew got to her feet.

"They are seeking reassurance in their lives," she began, as the silent room stared at her, owlishly. "These wizards, whether inciting the violence you describe or condone it clearly feel there is nothing that this Ministry, this Ministry for _Magic, _can offer them in defence of their beliefs."

"Leave ideology to covens, let the druids handle them!" Miss Forteskew's eyes narrowed at Demescue Goole, who had spoken, and Peaceable Furnace, Dave Mullen and even the inscrutable Lucius Malfoy nod.

"Yes. We have." Evelyn nodded, glancing at Caelius. "And look where this has got us. You've told us here, Chief Minister, that defence strategies and deterrents are working. Were we to appeal to the wizards we are imprisoning, were we to make them feel we have something that they can relate to perhaps they would not seek solace in our Auld Magic?"

"Indeed," interrupted Hervert Herbert, his voice cracking as he contributed. "But the druids a long time ago, a long time ago indeed."

"There are plenty of powerful wizards who carry this mantle, if not the name," responded Dave Mullen. "Some might even say such wizards were in this very room."

"And yet these druidical wizards do not have enough influence to have prevented the conjurism you so hatefully speak," replied Evelyn, who was still standing, her voice strong and forceful "I put it to the cabinet that we have failed a large section of our community whom we claim to represent!" As silence fell, bar the scratching of the minutes above their heads her eyes met those of Caelius and she held the gaze defiantly.

"If I may?" Lucius Malfoy, hand raised, nodded as Caelius looked away from Evelyn and gestured that he may speak. "From the point of view of my role as Chancellor of the Exchequer, perhaps I am a little out of touch in terms of the front line. But these attacks, if I am right in my understanding, are few, and low level. They do not seem to be as much of a threat we perceive." The wizards, as one, drew a breath, waiting for the inevitable. It wasn't long in coming. "You only have to look at the Continent, where my son is President of the Magical European Union." Collectively the wizards rolled their eyes. Lucius never missed an opportunity to mention his son, and did so at every available opportunity. "In Europe, so I am led to believe, conjurists, non-wizards and wizards alike live side by side, there is no resistance to their belief, and in turn, no violence."

"Get on with it Lucius!" growled Rodolphus Lestrange, Justice minister, His wife sat adjacent, her mind appearing not to be with the rest of the Ministers As Minister for Sports and Competitive Magic Bellatrix Lestrange's mind probably was not even on this planet. Had they been talking about Quidditch, for example, then things would be a lot different.

"Perhaps it's a passing phase? People go through these ideas, and they come and go." Lucius waved his hand. "In a few months all this will have been forgotten and I'll be getting more letters about tax instead." He sat down. No-one else raised a hand. Caelius looked around the wizards and, when he was sure no-one else had anything else to say on the matter, he continued.

"All I'm saying is we can't divorce ourselves from Auld Magic," replied Evelyn, "and we have given people the freedom to express their wizardliness. Now, twelve years after that legislation was passed, when wizards are doing just that, what do we do? Dole out sanctions – "

"Save it for another time, Evelyn." Mick Mullen, unfolding his legs at the ankle, put his hands behind his head instead. Evelyn Forteskew sat back down again.

"As I said, we are dealing with the threat to our country in terms of practicalities – " he shot a look at Evelyn Forteskew and smiled inwardly at her evident dissatisfaction – "with practical measures. We will continue to offer a bulwark to conjurists and so if it emerges as you say, Lucius, a passing interest in the minority, then we can step down our vigil. Though I have to stress that, from our intelligence, we should not underestimate those _behind_ the conjurists. Even the least witted conjurist that we've interviewed so far in Azkaban is aware of our stance on half-breeds, that they are not going to be tolerated. And I do not believe anyone here would sanction the legalisation of half breeds." He glanced at Miss Forteskew, a woman who had competed with him every day since he had arrived at Hedgewards, waiting for her to countermand him.

Before he had a chance to introduce Mick Mullen to brief the cabinet on the imminent arrival of non-wizard students to Hedgewards his brother Dave spoke.

"I believe you have interest in this matter yourself, Caelius? Your brother? Please allow me to address the cabinet as a neutral voice." The Head of Health looked around the table. Several of the ministers who might have challenged Caelius looked away. "Half breeds are, of course, welcome in the country but under strict conditions. Each are interviewed prior to admission through customs and they sign a contract of conduct. When unlicensed half-breeds, being used as symbols by conjurists, arrive here, they are unacclimatised to our expectations and, in many cases, their undesirable features are downright encouraged by the conjurists. We have this evidenced in their confessions. I cannot imagine anyone here could entertain the removal of licence, as called for by many conjurists, from many walks of life, as being anything but irresponsible.

Caelius looked round. Even those he expected to challenge him had fallen silent, a few looking down. It had been a coup of highest magnitude when he had appointed the younger Mullen brother Head of Defence for the wizard's loquaciousness was Caelius's biggest asset. His second biggest, he postulated, lay within his robe. He had not got round to looking at the manuscript that Cecilia had given to him, but he would, right after the meeting. Gently, as he was about to introduce Mick Mullen to speak, he patted his pocket. And then Caelius realised Evelyn Forteskew was back on her feet.

"There is another security measure I wish to raise," she began, "which may also be considered by some as irresponsible. May I clarify that Cecilia Lupin is not only back in the country but residing in the Chief Minister's home?" Caelius made sure his face remained fixed as he took in Evelyn's expression of triumph. Nearly all of the Ministers were now looking at him accusingly. Evelyn realised this too, and smiled at his expected discomfort.

"My fellow wizards, indeed, indeed. As you know, we have been expecting Mrs Lupin to make an appearance; did we not send bugs, nay, a _swarm _of bugs in search of her?" He began to pace round the table as he recounted his role in Cecilia's residency.

"We believed she was missing, did we not? I personally believed her to be captured by conjurists, European conjurists at that, those who we suspect to be involved in the uprising of conjurism in Britain today. Had she have been I suspect her life probably wouldn't have been worth living for Cecilia would not have revealed her work for the sake of her son. Why, it was for her son's sake that she abandoned her post at Durmstrang and returned to where she knew he would be."

"And how is any of this meant to reassure us? A security threat in non-wizard form has taken it upon herself to disobey you to be, as you say yourself, with her son." Evelyn continued to smile. Caelius fixed her with a neutral glance.

"Please do not let yourselves believe that Mrs Lupin's role is over – far from it."

"And what reassurances do we have?" This time it was Hervert Herbert who croaked the thoughts of many into being.

"Only one: that I have her under control."

"You've said that before," replied Evelyn Forteskew, and several others nodded.

"All is in hand. And she has been most useful to our cause." Caelius changed the subject while pretending he hadn't. "Speaking of Europe we are still waiting to hear from several of our agents from Europe, Milo Jakeman, Felicity Bell and Henrietta Edwards. Clearly they must still be in their field completing their assignments. While we still need to be guarded over the idea of missing agents – " Caelius heard the name "Reginald Pugh" whispered by the wizards and nodded inwardly, the ministry agent who had prompted a wizard-hunt over three continents but was discovered sitting down a well in Luxembourg dribbling, " – they will nevertheless need to present their findings before the end of September. Would respective department heads take note?" Three wizards, quill in hand, scribbled quickly on the papers in front of them. Caelius turned his head Gregor. "And Tabitha?"

The elderly wizard, jerking as if being awoken (which he probably was, a dream, Caelius postulated, regarding at a mystery or three) and blinked. After a few moments he looked at Caelius. "I have absolutely no idea. Probably fine."

"She is still behind the veil?"

"Yes." Then Gregor sank back into his chair, his mind searching for the thoughts from which he had been so rudely interrupted. It was probably the best he could hope for – Mysteriours acted according to their own rules and as such Caelius felt lucky he had got a response from Gregor at all. It had satisfied the ministers too – even the ever-meticulous Lucius did not raise so much as an eyebrow.

"Mick? Over to you?" Caelius looked at the Head of the Department of Education, who was chewing on what looked like gum and he resisted the urge to ask the older Mullen to remove it. As he rose Caelius clarified, "Mr. Mullen will brief us on our educational challenge which, I am pleased to say, we have met head-on."

Slowly, casually, in the manner completely opposite to that of Caelius Lupin Mick Mullen got to his feet, slouching, even though there was nothing to slouch against and began to speak. Like his brother, Mick was in his sixties, but he had the spry, sprightly outlook on life of someone a third of his age.

"Thank you Caelius." He winked at the Chief Minister. Caelius growled inwardly. "And my thanks too for the tireless work you have put in to the amendments to the Education policy. Your attention to detail has left me with little to do." It was true: Caelius _had_ driven through the changes, namely because he knew if he had left it to Mick "laidback-he-was-almost-vertical" Mullen there would be non-wizards at Hedgewards ten years from now. He closed his eyes and nodded a little, openly accepting Mick's comment as an accolade.

"That said, our department has been working on the dual subject names which, if you'll allow, we may ratify now?" Without waiting for a reply he withdrew his wand and flicked it above them. Words, scrolling around the table, at eye-height, appeared, moving from right to left, so all of the Hedgewards subjects, which would be called by both names this academic year, could be viewed by all of the wizards.

"…Defence against the Dark: Practical Defence…Charms: Physics…Transfiguration: Science…Potions: Chemistry…Herbology: Plant Biology…History of Magic: History…Astronomy: Astronomy…"

"Astronomy's going to be called Astronomy?" Dulcie Dainty's squeaky voice sounded above the low hubbub as the wizards commented to one another as subject after subject appeared.

"Non-wizards study astronomy, albeit at an amateur level. This needs no translation on their behalf." Anaxagoras Tring, Head of the Department of Non-Wizard Liaison clarified the point on which Mick had consulted him. Caelius bristled. Had he had time, and wish to remove all responsibility from Mullen – not a particularly politically shrewd move – astronomy would have been renamed. It was the point of the fact. But these things were bound to happen and, especially when there was still so much to do before the end of the week, some things would have to pass if non-wizards were to successfully study at Hedgewards this year, for now.

"…Study of Ancient Runes: Religious Studies…" continued the subjects, "…Arithmancy: Mathematics…Non-wizard Studies: Sociology…Care of Magical Creatures: Animal Biology…Divination: Politics and Economics…"

At the last one Caelius took a furtive look at Mick, who grinned, an expression which could easily be interpreted as pleasure at his revelation in his part in the integration of non-wizards to Hedgewards and, more than likely, a subversive swipe at the Establishment. The whispering continued as the words continued.

"…Ancient Studies: Archaelogy…Art: Art of Magical an Non-Magical Subjects…" Caelius had proposed this name as an illustration to the clarity he was expecting. Nevertheless, from the atmosphere in the room nothing which Mick had revealed so far had displeased them. He would wait, until their next meeting at least, to push his policy that the wizard subject names would be dropped as of next year.

As the subjects tailed off, "… Earth Magic: Geology…Music: Magical and Non-Magical Music..." Mick waited for the discussions between adjacent wizards to die off. 

"You will notice that one subject, Ghoul Studies, has been temporarily withdrawn this year while its content is reviewed and a suitable title considered. One has been added with only its non-wizard name, "Language of Spells and What they Mean." Any questions?" He looked around as precisely no wizards raised their hands. He suspected there wouldn't be: it was in everyone's interest, not least from the financial aspect, that the reforms went ahead – Caelius had impressed on each and every Head of Department the personal benefits of non-wizards at Hedgewards…improved security…cultural harmony…healthcare development…improved transport links…smoother relations between the Hovel Office and its equivalent in the Combined Government…fewer legal disputes.

Even Evelyn held her tongue. She was fiercely against anything which might sully the noble history and culture of wizards but even she had been reluctantly swayed on the argument that both of these would be strengthened rather than weakened when non-wizards truly understood wizards.

As the meeting wound up, Caelius nodding and shaking hands with some of the wizards and witches as they went past, he realised that the burden of the meeting had been replaced in his thorax with something else. The room emptied and he sat down, the dark tiles now empty of feet, the minutes devoid of additions and now on the desks of all Department Heads in their entirety.

He wouldn't worry about that, he _couldn't_. The time could not be afforded. So much to do…so much to organise. Caelius would be so glad when it came to Monday next week, the first day of teaching at Hedgewards. So much would be in place then.

Then Caelius got to his feet, sweeping across the room, closing and securing the Cabinet Meeting Room behind him. So little was known about Tabitha Penwright's whereabouts and that bothered him. Not that he couldn't trust the Mysteriours – far from it. It was just that they were so…unpredictable. But he had no reason to believe in anything other than expected of her.

"You wished to speak to me?" Out of the shadows the elf Vincento stepped, his long thin feet gliding across the corridor tiles in front of Caelius. The Chief Minister stopped.

"Indeed my old friend." From his robe he pulled out the manuscript painstakingly copied by Cecilia and handed it to the elf who ran his thin, long fingers over its cover and then, seemingly at random, some of the pages.

"Can you translate it?" Caelius hoped he didn't seem too desperate and he held off from asking for a timescale from Vincento. The elf opened his eyes.

"Of course." He waited until Caelius had furnished him with gold. And then the elf turned, heading off towards the Department of Mysteries. Caelius Lupin watched him go until he could see him no longer.


	27. The Coming of the Going

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It looked to be the start of a beautiful day. It was 5.30am in the Lupin household and for once Cecilia awoke, refreshed, in Caelius's bed. The sunlight poured in through the picture window which stretched across the width of the wall that faced the west – uninterrupted panorama, fells, hills, and the biggest, Helvellyn, a purple-green peak, the distinguished shoulders of its slopes contrasting gloriously with the orange of the already-risen sun.

She turned over to look at the mountain, staring at it. Close to the end of the summer though it was Cecilia felt the day was more like that first day of spring. Not the 21st March, the spring equinox, but the first warm day of the young year that you get which tells you that winter is behind you and that summer, though some rainy and cold days may intrude, is on its way.

Glorying in the view, and the preceding, though unprecedented, rest she had achieved Cecilia wondered on the day ahead. She had arranged, via a short floo conversation, to meet up with her friend, Petunia Dursley, who was to have been going to Diagonalley with her younger son Darren to buy his requisite belongings to accompany him to Hedgewards. Cecilia had received a letter by owl later that evening, however, telling her that she was going to have to cancel but had invited her to her home near Ormskirk that evening.

So, her original plan stood. Caelius had organised for the floo network to take them both to Diagonalley at ten o'clock sharp and, via the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, for a return trip to the cottage at precisely three. Cecilia looked at sky as the cuckoo clock below pipped three times indicating three quarters of an hour. It was a pity in a way they were going shopping that day for it would have been a perfect day for a long walk.

But she was going to be with Septimus, and shopping for the most important day of his future; Cecilia had to impress this fact on Caelius the previous evening when he had told her he could not transport them both to the wizardly shopping shambles and had reluctantly set up an open look link in the floo network which would be open for no more than thirty seconds at precisely the times specified. He was her _son,_ Cecilia has had to explain to Caelius for the umpteenth time and it was not only her duty but her privilege to take him to buy his school supplies.

Banishing the thoughts of her brother-in-law usurping her parental role with his own complicated agenda, Cecilia closed her eyes, thinking further back in the previous evening, when Caelius had brought her back to the cottage from the hospital. Still no progress, no movement, but no chance for the antigen to merely dissipate. You could not directly translate non-wizard medical treatments with those for wizards, which is why healers operated here in this world still and the professions hadn't been levelled, as had happened in so many other arenas. Wasn't there anything that anyone could do? Surely there had to be. It had hit her as she had sat there, holding her husband's hand, that the inability to cure those bitten by vampires was indeed serious so maybe, perhaps maybe, the government's measures to limit their number and control their whereabouts in the UK was indeed a sensible one.

In her mind's eye Cecilia pictured her son, who would now be snoozing away in his room down the landing, having had a disturbed night, so she had discovered when she went to investigate the twittering and bangs when she had returned from the hospital that had been coming out of his room, Mervyn having kept him awake with frequent visits and rodent casualties.

But there was no rush. Despite Cecilia's habit of arriving early to get the shopping done so she could be free enjoy the bustle of the crowds. It would be an atmosphere full of potential, of waiting, of watching, of children brimming with excitement and expectation, poring over soon-to-be belongings, pets, brooms, cauldrons, wands…

…a flash of anger flashed over her mind: Septimus was a wizard after all, and he was going to Hedgewards. Did Caelius really think he would be the one to go with him to Diagonalley, to choose his wand with him? She dashed it down. It wouldn't be him, and he knew he was out of line. No. Cecilia smiled. She, his mother, would be with him when he walked into Ollivanders that day, when he chose his wand. Or, rather, when his wand chose him.

Closing her eyes Cecilia basked in the ever-increasing warmth of the morning sunlight as the world turned on its axis and brought the Lupin cottage, on its patch of Cumbrian countryside, closer to the sun.

It was Septimus who woke Cecilia up, rather than the other way round. She dozed back off to sleep that morning expecting that it would be her who would be knocking tentatively on his door, trying to prise the lad from his bed. Instead, and for the fifth time in as many days Septimus was taking it out in the springs of Caelius's bed.

"Come on, Mum! Wake up!" Muzzily she opened one eye as her son looked intently at him. "Are you getting up, or what?"

In a country that was proud to have integrated its wizard and non-wizard cultures, at least as far as the government was concerned there was something comfortingly wizardly in Diagonalley, with its winding streets, cobbled pavements,dark, Gothic buildings, so old and curmudgeonly it oozed magic. They appeared by way of the pre-arranged floo connection in front of the hearth in the Leaky Cauldron. Already the place was buzzing with excitement, with the bustle of people, lots of people, using the time pre-term-start to reacquaint themselves with the place, meet up with old friends, get their shopping, socialise. It was as if one big festival had descended on the collection of magical streets, something the business owners not only keenly relished but depended upon.

As such each shop front shouted its wares loudly (literally, in some cases), with banners, advertising and colourfulness. They stepped out of the magical pub and onto the cobbles and were immediately jostled by wizards and witches and children appearing nearby who were keen to get shopping. Nearby was a floo hub designed from the non-wizard families who had decided to send their children to Hedgewards. They appeared, with maps and letters with the school seal on, wandering around, locating the shops, appearing with shopping wearing sometimes bemused, intrigued or downright shocked expressions on their faces. Cecilia held Septimus's hand tightly.

"So," she said, smiling as the galleons in her purse began to burn a hole from her desire to be the one to look after Septimus's immediate future needs. "Where do you want to go first?"

Septimus chose the sweet shop, a typical choice, and Cecilia indulged him in some Every-Flavour beans and half a dozen chocolate frogs. As one of the frogs got hastily devoured and the card pocketed Cecilia led them further down as they headed towards Madam Malkin's passing shops so familiar and so stonily unchanged from the first moment she had ever been to the Alley that she could almost swear that the Weasley children were going to call her over so they could have lunch back at the Leaky Cauldron with them.

It was the same old place, but where the shops were changed their differences were marked. Even some of the more familiar shops had altered their frontage advertising, which now encouraged non-wizards of all ages who were due to go to Hedgewards that they had sufficient choice in non-wizard goods. Flourish and Blotts had non-wizard-friendly core textbooks where the danger of your hand being removed had been reduced; Ollivanders promised to find suitable substitutes for wands and boasted in a large sign outside that non-wizards got to choose their own wands.

Madam Emaness was still there, the gorgeous robes and dresses adorning the windows and Cecilia had to fight the urge to go in and go shopping for herself. Eeylops Owl Emporium, where Mervyn had come from, had a group of children of Septimus's age with their noses practically glued to the window. It was a similar story outside Quality Quidditch Supplies. "Non-wizards catered for" was the sign outside the apothecary (although Cecilia wondered whether the goods sold could actually be used in the chemistry lessons proposed by Caelius (who knew little about the subject). It had taken a great deal of effort for Cecilia not to volunteer to do something to help.

And in the window of Gringotts the exchange rate for pounds to galleons had just been slightly altered, in big numerals hovering just above the door. 1 galleon could now buy 5 pounds 20p, down from the £5.22 that it had been when they both passed it. It had to happen, Cecilia thought as Septimus peered into the window of Flourish and Blotts as they passed it on the way to the robe shop. If Caelius wanted integration at Hedgewards it depended on these shops catering for the few non-wizard families shopping there that day.

"Is Julian coming today?" asked Cecilia as she pushed open the door of Madam Malkin's shop. Septimus shook his head.

"I asked him, but he's coming tomorrow. His parents are very excited about it." Septimus had explained that both Mr. and Mrs. Scott both had a keen interest in all things magical.

As Madam Malkin buzzed around them like an exquisitely-tailored bee they chatted. It was the first time they had both talked like that, like the old times, since she had returned and Cecilia felt a glow in her heart. She was back and she was enjoying being in the company of her son. She was out of it, out of the yoke of magic; it would not bother her again, her millstone had gone. Cecilia Lupin was free to get on with her life with the only decision in front of her being whether they should eat lunch after this or once they had bought everything they'd come for.

"…and Sam says you get to choose some of the subjects you want to study when you get to the Third Year, but he says there'll probably be different subjects when I get that far, because of the En-Doubleyous. What do you think, mum?"

"En-doubleyous?" asked Cecilia as Septimus stood two feet higher than usual, on a satin block, being measured and his growth until the end of his OWLs being estimated by an elf (the robes altered themselves automatically as the student grew ("patented technology, exclusive to my boutique," Madam Malkin had boasted as they'd entered).

"Non-wizards." Septimus raised his eyebrows, his brow creasing in the same way his father's did when he looked confused when Cecilia didn't understand something straight away. "I mean, they won't be that different subjects, really?"

"Who knows? It'll be exciting. And you'll be able to write to your Uncle Kay and ask what he has planned, can't you?"

Three robes later, two his uniform and one for smart and Cecilia was carrying a brown paper parcel under her arm.

"Now you've got Mervyn," she continued as they passed probably the biggest change to the commercial landscape of Diagonalley, "but, do you want one of those pensieves?" Cecilia gestured to the shop selling portable pensieves, a kind of device developed by the Ministry (Tabitha Penwright, Cecilia recalled) were now on sale for general use. From what Cecilia could ascertain, and she didn't know much, the device used the floo network to store the memories of the owner. Such memories could be accessed by other owners of portable pensieves, should the original memory-provider so wish by means of a pass code. Teenagers could communicate remotely with one another safe in the knowledge that only those who they wanted to contact could see their memories. By the look of the queue, which stretched down Diagonalley and threatening to skew into Knockturn Alley, they were a huge phenomenon. It also meant that the adults queuing with their children could indulge them safe in the knowledge they could use their own hearths connected to the floo network to contact their offspring.

"No." Septimus shook his head. "I don't want one."

"Sure?" Cecilia watched as her son followed the train of customers with a varying shapes of the new device in their hands, a clear globe atop through which thoughts could be enticed and fed.

"Sure."

"Are you hungry? Lunch is on Uncle Kay at the Leaky Cauldron. Or there's the bank; I need to organise your pocket money." She waited as Septimus went into a silent, thoughtful manner. Eventually he said,

"Can we go to the wand shop now?" Cecilia stopped walking and looked at him, smiling happily. Septimus smiled back.

"Of course."

They passed the second main difference to the street as they made their way to Ollivanders, Cecilia swelling with anticipation. The Daily Prophet's premises used to be at the top end of Diagonalley but were now located halfway down, at the junction with Knockturn Alley and, judging by the hack-style headlines on their billboards ("Non-wizards: more closely related to dolphins than wizards?" and "Giants: as big a problem as they'd have you believe?") were living up to their notoriety. Gone was the support for the Ministry that had pervaded in the Old World, and here too, Cecilia remembered. Was there ever a focus of government scepticism more ferocious, more single-minded? She knew it was the bane of Caelius's life for, as soon as a new initiative was announced it was condemned in print within minutes.

This time the headline simply reported a number, the number 42. This was, according to the subheading on the paper itself, was the amount of non-wizards who had been the subject of conjurist attacks. The newspaper then went on to question the wisdom of banning conjurists and the freedom of magical practice, claiming that, if the government was really concerned with non-wizards they should allow conjurists their freedom rather than try to curtail it. On the wall to the right of the building, as had been daubed every so often down the street, a symbol that reinforced the Prophet's point: a circled C, the symbol of the conjurists, activists and radicals, who had begun to press their point even in this ancient street.

"Mum," said Septimus, as they stopped outside the wand shop. "I wish Dad was with us." Cecilia sighed, and smiled kindly at her son.

"So do I, little Tim," she replied, before adding to herself, you wouldn't believe how much I wish he was with us.

The thin-paned door, whose glass moved in its frame as Septimus leaned on the handle, creaked open, the bell tinkling overhead as he stepped in. Cecilia followed behind watching as her son surveyed the walls and ceiling. Floor-to-ceiling were stacked boxes of different sizes and shapes, grey, blue, black, buff, made of thick card, wood or animal skin. Cecilia looked up, towards the spindly candles that hung from their holders from the ceiling only to find that more boxes made up the ceiling, shelves went up as far as the eye could see. How far up could they be? The stack seemed to rise higher than the confines of the building and her analytical mind began to calculate the volume of wands that must be stored up there.

"Three hundred and ninety four thousand, one hundred and fifteen." The words crackled from an aged voicebox. Its owner, now standing before Cecilia and Septimus, who was equally awed (but was more likely to get away with it, being only eleven) shot his eyes to the elderly wizard standing before him. Septimus turned quickly to look at his mother and Cecilia stepped forward.

"Hello, Sir," she began, but Ollivander ignored her and looked directly at Septimus.

"Where do we start…now where – do – we – start?" It wasn't a question. No sooner as the wizard, presumably Ollivander, had spoken the words he had turned on his heel, before turning back and, watching Septimus intently, whose gaze had wandered to the top left hand corner of the shop and he strode in that direction with more power than his frail legs betrayed before scrambling up a ladder.

Within minutes he had climbed down, striding back and placing the wand on the table. Cecilia watched as intently as Septimus, whose hand hovered halfway between his waist and the wand, wanting to touch it but equally cautious.

"Go on, go on," encouraged Ollivander, in a tone that Cecilia recognised herself using from time to time ("put that in the chemical mixture you've made – what will happen? I've no idea!") and both he and Cecilia watched as Septimus's hand approached.

A low growl, like an animal warning of imminent attack should he continue, came from the wand and Septimus Ollivander clicked his tongue, as if in scolding and stared at the wand before shaking his head.

"No, no." He looked at Septimus as if the boy took his meaning entirely. "Nine inches. Beech. _Titanium core_," he added, as if each subsequent clarification should make the his point increasingly understandable. Swiping it away he closed his eyes, opening them sharply as a rustling sound above caught his attention.

"So you think you're his wand?" he asked the noisy wand crossly. "All right, if you insist." Cecilia watched as the wizard reached up, to a shelf hidden behind the counter before a wrestling match ensued between him and a slim, tan leather case.

"Take it," Ollivander encouraged for, once he laid it on the counter before Septimus the struggling stopped abruptly and a wand, of very pale wood, twisted and bent, very long and very thin. No growling this time, or any sound at all save the bustle of the people outside as they walked along the cobbles, talking and laughing. He closed his hand around it and looked at Ollivander, before looking at his mother.

"Ivy. No core. Go on," he whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "Give it a try." Septimus held it aloft, Cecilia noticing his hand shaking a little. A white spark shot from the backwards end, like a bullet, shattering the glass behind Septimus and ricocheting off the wall of "Flourish and Blotts."

"Treachery! Treachery!" Ollivander grabbed the wand hastly from the counter where, in fright, Septimus had dropped it. Cecilia placed a hand gently on her son's shoulder and he smiled nervously. Ollivander was having a wrestling match with the wand as he tried to get it back into its case; it shifted and rattled in its rage at being contained as the wizard muttered words such as, "…faithless fey that you are! …O twisted hag!..." as he eventually won the fight.

Seven others later, which either fizzed, crackled or simply did nothing and Cecilia's son looked at her, downcast. She could see what was in his mind, that (as she had done) Septimus had thought his wand would choose him quickly.

"Don't worry, love, your wand will be here, somewhere. Mr. Ollivander has got over three hundred thousand, and you've not seen ten yet." Ollivander's eyes narrowed as Cecilia's words seemed to interrupt him from his train of thought and he looked at the boy with curiosity.

"No, no, nothing to worry about," the wizard reiterated. "Time means nothing when your wand is choosing you. Often young wizards can be here an hour or so; the wands for boys take longer to discover them. And only last week a young witch was in here for five hours before her wand found her. No, no…we'll keep going."

Ten minutes later, and a manner of other wands had been laid before Septimus. He had laid his hand on every one, and every one had elicited a verbal label from Ollivander, "…oak, seven inches; it's core is most unusually mouse tailbones…yew – some say unlucky – eleven and three quarters, dragon's wing-quill core…"

When he reached the next, "…Hawthorn, ten and eleven-twelfths, phoenix feather…" Septimus put his hand on the wand unenthusiastically. Then he stopped, before turning to his mother, a big smile on his face.

"It feels…_right_."

Cecilia reached down and hugged Septimus tightly. The euphoria of that moment made her want to cry and she felt tears prick her eyes. To have missed this moment was unthinkable.

"I'm so proud of you dear," she said, close to his ear and she hugged him again.

"Wands choose their wizards, you see," said Mr. Ollivander as he stood away from the counter and beamed at Septimus. "In your case, it's as clear, very clear."

"What's clear?" asked Septimus as his mother put three galleons on the counter. Ollivander ignored Cecilia and bent in towards him, a smile on his face and a knowing expression.

"It will be clear to you soon enough, young man," he replied, before nodding at the wizard money and putting two knuts and a silver sickle next to them.

Flourish and Blotts was their next stop and Cecilia's natural affinity for all things paper-bound paled at the happiness she felt when she thought of the fact that she had been with him when her son had got his wand. They bought the standard books and she asked Septimus if she wanted anything for himself. He chose a book on Quidditch with which came a small book about the players, rules and a fold out model pitch. Cecilia smiled to herself as they paid for the books.

"So, you're not hungry now, are you?" she asked as she turned left as they got outside the booksellers, past three more graffiti'd circled Cs.

"Mum, I am," replied Septimus, his brow crinkling. "I thought you said we were going back to the Leaky Cauldron next?" It was true; Cecilia had mentioned food, but she also knew they would have to leave straight afterwards. She didn't want to have come to Diagonalley without the second most important thing she had wanted to get for her son, something she had told no-one about. And Caelius, despite all she despised him for, had paid her directly into her Gringott's account (all Ministry employees had one, so technically she could be thought of as one of them, she had told herself wryly). She hadn't needed to spend a great deal when she had been at Durmstrang; her meals and accommodation were provided (and what could you buy when you were in a castle perched on a rock in the North Sea?) so she had a fair sum available.

"I just want to pop into a shop down here," she explained, "it won't be long, just Boutes, the apothecary. We'll go to lunch straight after, OK?" Septimus nodded, walking beside his mother and peeping into his bag of books trying to read the blurb on the back of his Quidditch book.

Before they had gone too far, Cecilia stopped abruptly and began to stare into the window of a shop. It was a moment or two before Septimus noticed that they were outside the Quidditch Supplies shop. In the window was the latest model sports broom, lightweight but strong, streamlined, its dark polished wood glowing gloriously in the shafts of summer sunlight that had made their way down into Diagonalley and shown to its best as it hung in the very centre of the shop's display.

"Your dad's broom is in the cellar, have you dug it out yet?" Septimus had long since accepted that he was taking Remus's old school broom with him when he went to Hedgewards. He nodded.

"Good lad. We can go in and get a few things for you, if you like. A big smile spread across his face."

"Cool," he replied. "That'd be ace, mum." She opened the door for Septimus, who stepped in with renewed enthusiasm, goggling at the shop's vast and varied goods.

"Do you know anything about brooms? That one, for example?"

"It's fab," he said, looking the broom over. "I mean, all the top players have one like that! It's a Lightningshot Nine thousand and ninety nine. The last they're ever going to make.."

"The last they've made," clarified the short, tubby man from behind the counter. "The last they'll ever make. The Firebolt company have turned their back on broomsticks and gone into the Pensieve business, so it'll be Nimbuses from now on, I suppose. Not as fast though, but that's progress." He shook his head and glimpsed out of the window at the long line of people still outside the shop opposite. "This is the last one still available commercially." From around the shop a universal gasp of "ohhhh" came from the dozen or so prospective young customers (though, in all likelihood, browsers and handlers) and several moved as one, like a ship in calm water, towards where Septimus and Cecilia stood. She noticed the price tag. It was would cost all she had.

"So," she asked brightly, turning to her son. "It's up to you. Some accessories to start you off at school? Gloves? Shinpads? A broomcloak?" Cecilia stepped away from the window display and looked purposefully at the shelves stacked floor-to-ceiling with Quidditch-related things. She waited long enough for the silent "or" to plant itself in Septimus's mind. He looked up at his mother expectantly. Cecilia smiled, her eyes twinkling.

"Or, you could have the Lightningshot."


	28. Before the Hedgewards Express

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Petunia Black's house was modern in taste and style. A detached house in Surrey, in Little Whinging. Number 4, Privet Drive. When Cecilia had first visited it, after arriving in the world where everything was just a little bit different because of Tom Riddle's inconsequentiality on the world, it had taken her about five minutes to get to know Petunia and about ten for them to become friends. It took her a lot longer to get used to the idea that she wasn't a tutor to her son Dudley and that Petunia was married to Regulus Black, Sirius's brother. And longer still for her not to be convinced that Dementors were not going to be chasing her through the cul-de-sac with the Ministry, a teenage Draco Malfoy, Arabella Figg and the Ministry for Magic in tow.

It was early in the evening when Petunia floo'd Caelius's cottage to ask her what time she would like to be collected and later in the evening, once Septimus had gone to bed, for her to be sitting where she once had, on the patterned settee in the living room, talking to her friend.

Caelius had been there when Petunia had floo'd and she'd asked Cecilia over in such a charming way that had meant it was difficult even for Caelius to say no to babysitting. Without the merest hint of grudging (though Cecilia knew he would be seething – so close to the departure of the students to Hedgewards there must be so many loose ends he had to tie up).

"It'll only be for an hour or so," Cecilia had reiterated as the hearth flashed its familiar pulsing, indicating someone would be arriving imminently. "I'll be back to be with Septimus before you know it." It had been the third coup of the day. The fact that she had actually been able to take her son to Diagonalley had been the first. The second had come as Septimus had been on his way to bed. He'd said, in front of his uncle, that she'd be there to see how much excitement there would be as he got on the Hedgewards Express. "You'll be there to see me off mum, won't you?" His eyes had glimmered and Cecilia had taken his meaning. He meant, "because dad won't be there." Cecilia had replied that of course she would be there, how could she not be, to see her son off on his first day going to his new school? The third had meant that she was now with her friend despite her brother-in-law.

Petunia Black had been her friend for a long time, that much was true. Why it was they were friends wasn't altogether obvious until you spoke to Petunia for long enough. Born into a non-wizard family with aspirations for her akin to that of her sister when Lily's talents had been discovered Petunia had grown up in the shadow of magic, not quite fitting in, and had got by with her muted charm and likeability and she had managed to get through life living parallel to her magical cousins without too much conflict. Such resilience had stood Petunia in good stead and when Cecilia's relationship between the Reciprocators had begun to strain she found herself sharing a little of her woes.

In turn Cecilia had assisted Dudley Black in his education. Dudley had begun Hedgewards at the same time as Harry but his magical inability had caused him to lag behind so in his spare time Cecilia had, at his mother's request, helped him in non-magical disciplines at his mother's insistence and Dudley had found he had an ability (and the growing keenness) for craft subjects; woodwork, metalwork, welding, engineering. His father had approved of his son's hobbies and so Dudley, at home at least, was not the write-off that the Hedgewards staff (and many students alike) thought that he, and many other students who found magic challenging, were. Her efforts were not so warmly received by the Reciprocators however, including (ironically, considering the current educational policy at Hedgewards) Caelius Lupin.

Dudley now worked at the local hardware shop in Little Whinging, could relate entirely to what the customer needed (sometimes before they had even spoken) and could mend anything. But his dream, Petunia had often related, which would make him independent and give him a chance, at twenty eight, to leave home, would be to follow in his father's footsteps as a floo engineer at British Floo.

It had taken Petunia about a minute to get Cecilia comfortable on her sofa, explaining that Dudley was out, Darren was in bed, hopefully asleep but more likely poring over something quidditch-related and Regulus was on a night shift and another five to make tea and bring out sandwiches.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't meet you this morning, Cecilia, " she began, pouring the tea from her Villeroy and Boch teapot. "Darren was taking an age to get together everything he needed and Regulus's shift changed. You don't mind do you? It's so good to see you," she added, as Cecilia nodded her head, the nausea of the floo journey she had just experienced not having quite passed yet.

"It was quite a shock to hear you'd got back; almost as much as the one I had when Regulus had told me you'd gone all the way to Durmstrang." She shook her head. "Caelius. I know."

"I'd had enough of being there, of being away from Caelius, of being told what I have to do and where to be. It was Remus who'd made up my mind, when he visited me, in June. I couldn't be away from them any more, no matter what Caelius said. We made up, Remus and I…" her words drifted to nothing as she frowned.

"And now you get back to your family knowing that Remus is in such a way – I was so shocked to hear about them both…it just shows you what these so-called Conjurists are doing, utter fools that they are. Do you suppose Caelius's plan for non-wizards at Hedgewards will work?"

"Would it have helped you, or Dudley?" Cecilia asked, sipping at her tea. It was Petunia's turn to fall silent. At length she put down her teacup.

"It may have. I mean it's a good idea. Any attempt to understand wizards who are challenged and non-wizards too will always be good. But, it just seems too fast. I mean, while Caelius is about it, will there be a decent careers education, or will those who can't do a magical job just be left to fend for themselves? Dudley…so many people underestimated him. And now there'll be students with no magical ability whatsoever?" She shook her head. "No…like all these things, it's great in principle but it's being forced through for political reasons, that's my feeling, and they never turn out well. Caelius…he's got far too much on; head of the Reciprocators was just one responsibility too far. I mean, do you ever witness him sleep?"

Cecilia laughed, shaking her head. "He must sleep downstairs. When I turned up he gave up his bed when I arrived." Petunia shook her head again.

"He's just so unlike Aberforth. Handing over the Reciprocators to a politician was an interesting move. Aberforth was honest, he spoke it like it was; so unlike Albus Dumbledore, too…power-hungry…manipulative…Aberforth always let things run their course, intervened only when he had to. Not like _Albus_ Dumbledore. Not like Caelius, either," she added.

Cecilia smiled, a weight lifting. She always felt better after talking to Petunia Black; she put things into perspective; it was a litmus test for her feelings, whether they were genuinely representative of the situation or her own paranoia. Petunia's natural ability to empathise was, of course, her magical ability, it was what she was good at, something to which her genetics, which Cecilia's prior investigation, in the Other Place, had pointed her. It was how Petunia had begun to suspect Cecilia, as tutor to her son Dudley was not all that she seemed. But here they were friends. It had been Cecilia who had cut herself off from Petunia, who had written to her at Durmstrang regularly.

And so, the secret of her flight across the North Sea and the North of England, a secret she had shared with no-one (though the Ministry (depending on how much Caelius had shared with his colleagues) knew of her fantastical journey back, Cecilia shared with her friend.. Thinking about it now it even seemed to Cecilia outrageous – and she'd done it so it wasn't surprising that, as her friend listened to her, Petunia's mouth falling open, a mixture of disbelief and awe on her face.

"I was desperate. You know what it was like when I left, Petunia. When Caelius collected me from here, he took me straight to Durmstrang. He didn't even give me a chance to say goodbye to Septimus." In vain, Cecilia tried to hold back the tears, but salt water welled and she let them fall. Petunia reached over and held her hand. It was true. Petunia had been an oasis in the turbulence of that fateful evening. She had used the illicit floo powder which she had had in her pocket and had belonged to Remus's (and now Caelius's) grandmother, a non-wizard, to contact her husband and was, in this world, illegal. Caelius had used it to trace her to Privet Drive and had taken her there and then, explaining to her only when they had got to the magical school what she would be doing there.

But it had been her words to Cecilia for that brief time beforehand which had got her through. She had told her, as Cecilia had sobbed and bemoaned her innate inability to mother, that Freya could not have asked for a better person to care for her, and that it wasn't Cecilia's fault that the girls headstrong nature had led her along the path it had, making her seek thrills from abusing her adoptive mother's position, breaking into Hedgewards (for which Cecilia had got the blame) and then leaving home, stealing money from Cecilia to get herself to Whitehaven, to Nymphadora Tonks and Nick Smith's house leaving a cursive note.

Cecilia knew that Caelius intended to exile her somewhere. Petunia had told her that, if it was the case, that she had broken the law in some way (again, only the Ministry and Aberforth knew where she had arrived from) she should take the opportunity to learn as much as she can. Her words had been Cecilia's comfort and, when she was at her angriest at Caelius she channelled her energy in experiencing as much magic as she could, gain as much knowledge as possible, even try out her own hypothesis that someone of entirely non-wizard origin might change as a result of magical exposure. Was it controllable, or did it control the non-wizard, like the yeast in butterbeer, which had, when Cecilia had imbibed it, out drinking on her birthday with Tonks when she had arrived at Hogwarts, did it adversely affect her health?

To Cecilia's surprise, despite a higher than average concentration of magic (Durmstrang was a prolific research academy) she had suffered little in terms of her health and she had been even more surprised that she seemed to have developed a little magical ability of her own.

"If only, if only," Cecilia continued, "perhaps if I'd tried to fit in with the Plastics. If I'd tried to get along with them more."

"Oh my dear, how like you to say that!" exclaimed Petunia, tapping her hand again. She had never minded the nickname, even if it did refer to Lily disparagingly. "But you see, my sister and Henrietta too, they thrive on conflict. I stay out of it all for my sanity."

"But I'm out if it, I'm determined. I'm going to be Septimus's mother and that is all. I'll work in a non-wizard job – I don't care what – but I'm not going to get involved with magic again." Cecilia looked down. Petunia carefully topped up her tea. "And then I can be there for Remus, and do all those things that mothers should, like – " she broke off.

" – oh, Petunia!" her eyes shone as she recounted the morning. "It was wonderful, taking Septimus today! So many people there, going to get their Hedgewards things! The books…I'd forgotten how wonderful the place was…Flourish and Blotts…and I took him to get his wand..." she looked at Petunia, conveying her pleasure at her motherly duty. "Hawthorn. And then…have you heard of the Lightningshot? It's a – "

" – broom, yes I know," Petunia interrupted. "Darren's been going on about it all summer, saying how it's all downhill from now on, now they've stopped making the fastest broom in the world."

"It took me all the money I have…the wizard in the shop said it was the last one…"

"…you bought it for Septimus!" Cecilia nodded. "I wanted him to have something special. He's been through so much. I mean tomorrow Remus won't be there to wave him off…"

"Marvellous! I bet he'll make a lot of friends, having one of the most famous brooms in the world. Darren won't half be jealous."

"It was that or a pensieve," Cecilia continued, biting into a shortbread. "But he didn't want one of those. I'm quite glad, to be honest, but perhaps it's because I don't understand them." Individual pensieves, that could be used as messaging systems between their owners. The must-have accessory for Hedgewards students, one that every mum should have one because the floo network and owl-delivered letters had become _so _old fashioned and the aforementioned mother could now nag at every opportunity. And at every opportunity the respective witch or wizard student could now have an excuse to ignore her. Curiously owls were still popular pets, though what the owlery would be used for if not letters was anyone's guess.

"Portable pensieves!" Petunua spat, shaking her head. "I mean, we're supposed to be in a recession. Not by the queue I saw on Wednesday outside the Firestorm shop. Plus it's taking away business from the floo network. I don't know when Regulus has been so quiet. Dudley's worried he won't ever be able to get a job with British Floo. There are so few options open for him, even with his magical education." She shook her head. "His diagnosis as being like me…less-magically-able…it's been more of a hindrance than a help. When I was at Hedgewards, before our conditions were recognised as disabilities…yes, I'm not saying life wasn't difficult…but barriers weren't put in our way, we were encouraged to do our best and that nothing would stand in our way. Now…it's just excuse after excuse…"he's not as magically able as we'd like…he was on the LMA register at school, wasn't he…?" BF isn't like the Ministry. Sam Potter's always known what he wanted to do, but he's able, and James works for the Ministry. His career is pretty much signed and sealed." Petunia put down her cup of tea. Like Cecilia Petunia's family were her first priority and despite her affability she fought like a lioness to defend them.

"He's a bright lad, I'm sure it will all work out for the best. In fact I know it will. If people understand more about wizards with LMA then it'll come round in legislation and eventually he'll be given a chance. "

"You can't help but worry, though," replied Petunia. Cecilia nodded. She'd done more worrying than she had ever thought possible over Septimus; agonising over the decision for him go to Hedgewards was only her latest woe. "Sam's had a lot of time for Septimus, I've noticed," Petunia continued, smiling warmly. "Regulus has said he's been at Grimmauld Place several times." Cecilia pursed her lips.

"So Caelius could ease his conscience," she muttered.

"Is that how you feel? You really don't trust him, do you?"

"No, Petunia, I really don't." She counted to ten in her head; her friend did not deserve to hear the rest of the sentence, that she was forming in her mind about her brother-in-law. "But I'm grateful Septimus loves him and he was there when Remus was taken ill…he's done his best for little Tim, but now, at least, I can be there for him."

"He's excited about going to Hedgewards, then?"

"Too right. But oh…" Cecilia stopped abruptly, buried her head in her hands, the feeling of guilt eating at her as it had done since she had returned from Diagonalley and Septimus had told his uncle how excited he was that his mum had got for him the Lightningshot.

"Have I just tried to buy off nearly two years of absence with an expensive gift? I would rather…I would rather…" she coughed as she caught her breath –

" – you'd rather have been there for him, of _course_. Anyone who knows you knows that, Cec." Petunia put a comforting hand on Cecilia's back as the expression of her monstrous feelings that had been buried deep down surfaced as sobs. "It's just how you feel about the situation that you left…about the Plastics..." Cecilia turned to look at Petunia, who was smiling kindly at her, a knowing smile on her lips.

"…the Plastics…" Petunia echoed, smiling. Cecilia sat back up, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.

"And he's the biggest one of all!"

"Regulus said you looked well at the Reciprocator meeting the other night. I take it you didn't feel to threatened?" Cecilia shook her head.

"I've stepped away from magic and I'm glad; none of what they spoke about affected me. I didn't feel I had to be on the defensive."

"Then that's excellent. So…the only person making you feel bad is Caelius." Cecilia nodded slowly. It was true. It was so inherently true

"Just think, when you get back to your house, knowing Septimus is safely at school, and you're doing something non-wizardly, then just think how you'll feel."

"Brilliant," replied Cecilia, smiling back at her friend. Somehow Mrs Black had a way of making the things Cecilia was most worried about seem matter-of-fact and trivial, things that were easy to deal with or easily forgotten.

"The worst thing is having to ask him to take me to see Remus. It's as if he's putting a tally on a mental tick sheet under my name, for all the favours that I'm asking of him. I know…I _know_ I'll have to pay the debt eventually." The depression of her once-imagined freedom crashing around her as the reality of her confinement replaced it.

"That's easily settled," replied Petunia. "Whenever you need to get to St. Mungo's you contact me. You've got that non-wizard floo powder, haven't you?"

"That's another thing. If he catches me with that…"

"Regulus can sort that one out. There's many a thing can be disguised by a floo engineer. You're going to ask him about taking you tonight, aren't you?" Cecilia nodded. Petunia got to her feet, magicking away the tea tray. Cecilia watched as she approached the hearth.

"Well, drink up then." Petunia encouraged. If Caelius needs to get back to his _important work_ he'll find a way of keeping Septimus safe. "We'll go now, shall we? It's time I visited Sirius anyway." Cecilia got to her feet.

"Regulus, you know, he's so worried about Sirius," she continued as Cecilia stood beside her. Then, one body-restricting moment later, she was standing in the reception-hall of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies.

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Resting her head on the back of one of the cottage's chairs Cecilia closed her eyes. So far past midnight it probably classified as early morning she could not sleep and had decided to wait out the hours before it was light waiting. What she was waiting for Cecilia didn't know. Waiting for an appropriate opportunity to use the shower and get changed before Septimus went off to Hedgewards? Waiting for her painful thoughts to ebb away? Waiting for the anaesthesia of sleep?

They had spoken to the healer, first about Remus, then Sirius, then Remus again. From what the witch was telling them there was little change in their conditions though progress had been made, of sorts, in Remus's case. But it seemed that nothing short of a miracle would prevent him from acquiring at least some vampire traits when he awoke, unlike Sirius, who was now being treated with lycanthropy potion.

Perhaps she shouldn't have gone with Petunia to St. Mungo's. Her friend had chatted to her about Regulus, and his closeness to Sirius. Indeed, here that was the case, and she realised that Petunia had her own beef with Caelius. At least she was able to come to her own peace, ask her own questions and not feel trapped by her helplessness at her husband's plight. Sirius was being treated and would, if all things went in his favour, make a good recovery.

Sirius had always fascinated her. In the Old World he had caught her eye and her visceral desires had, to a certain extent taken over. His polar difference to her had been of immediate interest and his determination to prevent her from working on Harry's potion had invoked her competitive side, making her go on, driving her forward. Playing a game...

Well, weren't they all, those wizards? Playing while non-wizards suffered? That was something which had stuck here. The eradication of the m-word to describe those without magic in an effort in equity, those racist terms of yesteryear to describe anyone of a different skin colour or creed, muggle was one of those here, being driven underground and surfacing in the guise of the Conjurists.

Here Sirius Black was just an ordinary person, merely another wizard, admittedly with a rather appealing dry sense of humour, but in the not changed and twisted into a dark brooding figure by the deaths of his friends, by his false imprisonment, by the injustice of it all.

"You're the second visitor they've had tonight," the healer had commented as she left. But who, Cecilia wondered as Petunia took her home. Yes, the Order, of course. No, not the Order, the Reciprocators Even such things as these blended to one when she was tired.

Then, as she had been left alone by her friend, wishing her a good rest before they met tomorrow on Platform 8 7/8ths, it had hit Cecilia about how much time they had lost…how much time she hadn't been there…what if he died and he didn't know she'd been there…that he didn't know that she had accepted his beautifully-expressed offer of a reconciliation of their marriage and their time together…

She got up and made her way towards the kitchen, to the anaesthetic-inducing activity of making tea using the copper kettle on the stove and pouring the scalding-hot water over teabags, not tea. Cecilia then sat down, putting the cup firmly on the table in front of her. Then, she made her way upstairs, fighting her feelings, pushing open her son's bedroom door and checking on him before making her way back downstairs again.

As the silent, hacking sobs overcame her it was the voice of her friend who had intervened. The healer had mentioned that any help in terms of her husband, any tiny lead or insight could tip the balance. Cecilia closed her eyes. What Petunia had suggested would lead her back to magic. Petunia had asked her why she felt so terrified of magic that she would give up any effort on her part that might help Remus. It was true, cutting close to the nerve. All she needed to do was to contact Severus Snape, tell him she wanted in on a cure. Tell him she was not going away, and that she would not stop until she had found a way to help her husband. Her friend, of course, was right. It just meant she was shackling herself to magic, something she had vowed to herself that she would never do again.

Cecilia closed her eyes. When she opened them again she was staring in exactly the same place as she had been when she given in to sleep. What had not changed was the emotion, trapped behind her chest and in her throat.

Once she had floo'd Snape, declaring her lot Cecilia made her way back to the sofa again.

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The message, flashing blue and green, flickered in the hearth in the Headmaster's Office. As headmaster Severus Snape wordlessly glided across the stone floor towards it. It had been a long night but it would be nothing to the length of the day that tomorrow would bring. He invoked the message into being.

Cecilia Frobisher. But not now. Cecilia Lupin. He knew it wouldn't be long until he heard her swear she would help him for Remus's sake. Amateurish. But so close to everything she pursued. Had it not been for her effort and her pathetic supposition of a genetic connection between Tom Riddle, an old wizard who was once employed by the Ministry, and a variety of other wizards (Snape included) then he would not have thought of comparing their makeup. And yet, it had led to the understanding of the abilities of wizards with limited talent, that was, their bodies metabolised the energy but focused it into one area. They were specialists, highly talented in only one, or possibly two, magical areas. Such discoveries had gone on to inform magical governmental policy and had led to a better understanding of wizards.

It had explained Tabitha. Not that Snape needed an explanation for his feelings for her, not Tabitha Penwright herself, who would regard an understanding for her natural ability to interpret mysteries as important as a pebble in a gutter. But it had caused those in the Ministry, those who mattered, to change their opinion of Mysteriours and at a stroke their reputation for being eccentric yet mostly irrelevant was replaced with one of value for their work. At least he had Cecilia to thank for that.

Embarrassing, yes, when Cecilia got into her stride, trying to convince everyone who would listen to listen to her theories. It had been her own self-doubt that had led to Cecilia's own embarrassment at her magical theories which had led to her confrontation with Henrietta Edwards and the other Reciprocators. But Cecilia Lupin was her own worst critic. Not even the most cutting words of Henrietta would make her have a lower opinion of herself. Had there been less self-doubt on Cecilia's part Severus believed she might have rejoined him at Hedgewards. But the damage had been done. She was offering her services out of desperation; they both knew it. She had even felt so humiliated when she had apologised for her foolishness but he had never replied. What Cecilia really couldn't see was that she was able do this alone, do anything alone, with no regard for magic whatsoever, if only she believed in herself.

St. Mungo's had contacted him to provide lycanthropy potion; he had overseen its administration himself that evening. Sirius was far luckier than Remus. All he had to do was wake up to be all right. Currently, that would condemn Remus Lupin. It could be done, a vampire potion. But not here and not now.

Peering into the hearth he connected with the fireplace at Caelius Lupin's cottage, reviewing in his mind what he was about to say to his former colleague. To some extent, sending her to Durmstrang was no bad thing, cruel though it was. What his response would be was determined by the events Severus Snape witnessed, unseen (due to a security spell) as he viewed the discourse between Cecilia Lupin and Caelius, at the part of the conversation he had happened upon.

Caelius thanked her for being the one to be seeing Septimus off on the Hedgewards Express.

Of course, Cecilia had replied, where else would she be?

It would give her little time to pack.

But she would be able to come back to get her things, wouldn't she?

Unfortunately not. And she would be the one explaining to Septimus that she was leaving the cottage.

Of course she would, first thing in the morning. It would be good, she added aloud, that she would be going home.

If you could call it that, Caelius had replied.

Of course she called it home. What else would she call it?

Her place of work. But she had spent two years there, he supposed that she might call Durmstrang home. And it would be better for all concerned that she told Septimus immediately.

He couldn't make her, she protested.

Think of Septimus. How would he feel, his mother in Azkaban? Think of the shame. At least you'll be able to break it to him yourself. Think of the times that you won't be able to in the future.

Caelius headed up the stairs and Snape watched Cecilia watching her brother-in-law, open-mouthed. He watched her draw her hands towards her face, to crumple into a heap onto the worn, patterned carpet before burying her head in her hands, her wracked sobs straining at her frame until finally ebbing before Cecilia closed her eyes.

Severus Snape cut the floo connection and returned to his desk, contemplating the wretchedness of Cecilia Lupin's unchoosable choice.


	29. The Hedgewards Express

To describe the place she was in was immaterial. Dark clouds connected with thin strands of gaseous material were Tabitha's navigation points through the memories behind the veil.

Though time meant nothing here she sensed she had been amongst her memories – her children – for a reasonable time in this time-space dimension store of memories, some given willingly, some accidental. Some belonging to people unfortunate enough to have fallen through the mysterious archway. All memories of people dead lingered here, blended together, dispersed, moved spontaneously in their exosphere, jostled for room, connected. Who could be the one to understand what happened here? How could it be anyone but her?

The memories could be easily accessed by diving through their dense, cloudlike exteriors, by putting your head, arms or legs through the opaque material until you _became_ part of the memory, as an observer, watching the events unfold. You could interact with objects that were inanimate and…you could change the memory in doing so. Tabitha knew that Cecilia had done just this and she had, by all accounts, changed her version of reality. To Tabitha, of course, reality had always been what Cecilia called the New Place. Such was the mystery of the veil.

Another mystery, some way explained to a point by Severus, was that Tabitha's ability, and Cecilia's too, of being able to survive with the memories and reappear, not dying as a wizard would and thereby donating their memories to the ever-growing repository. But it was not to understand the mysteries that she was behind the veil this time. While her hypothesis about how, back here, the memories worked interested her it was not her prime focus for being here, not now. Her task was simple, as far as navigating her way around clouds which moved and shifted at will as she searched for those in particular whose features would, in the near future make a big difference. To probably any other person the place would be entirely outlandish and bizarre, ludicrous and nonsensical. But to Tabitha Penwright it made perfect sense.

But executing her endeavour was turning out to be more and more difficult. On a regular basis ever increasing memories arrived making the search more complicated. It had taken her, well, weeks so far, Tabitha estimated, rest and food taken when she needed by entering memories and taking what she needed, tactfully and carefully, so the chronology of the memory was preserved. Not that she needed food and rest here – time was at a standstill and, in turn, so was hunger and rest. It just went to show how, despite the lack of physiological need these fundamental human needs demanded to be satisfied.

What could be causing the increase? It was a question that occupied Tabitha's mind at present as she carefully traversed the memories, carefully because, one slip would have her down (relatively speaking) past the memories and into, well, if not oblivion, a place where she could not get hold of the rope that tied her to the shelving in the Department office. Had there been a sudden increase in deaths or prisoners? That would account for increase. Or some other means of accessing memories? Tabitha hoped that it would soon cease for she knew that every memory, identical in outer character to one another, would be have to be examined for as soon as they appeared, so changeable that they were and difficult to distinguish between. If she did not, she may never find the one she was looking for.

Resting on a particularly thick cloud she looked down through the translucent material. As she sank through Tabitha was relieved that the memory was empty, for now. It was the scene of a living room, with an tapestry, wing-backed chair right next to an empty hearth on floorboards. She leaned back. It reminded her of Severus's home, 42, Spinner's End, decorated around the time of Victoria's accession to the throne and little changed.

Tabitha closed her eyes momentarily, picturing his face in her mind. They had drifted away…but that was inevitable, given her task. He understood her. And for this reason it was likely, she concluded, that he had never pressed her for a conventional relationship. He was a good man; a great man, considering his input recently. Had she been able to live for a thousand years she could not begin to think like Severus Snape.

She opened her eyes again. Her strategy was not exactly what Caelius Lupin wanted, of course. Nothing anyone did was exactly what Caelius wanted. That was why, Severus always said, that the wizard refused to delegate. Perhaps it was in his nature, that he needed to be in control. Caelius wanted it destroyed. Tabitha let out a sigh, her stomach working on her mind to get a word in about her increasing hunger and she glanced in the direction of the house's kitchen.

It had to be destroyed, of course. She got to her feet, the floorboards squeaking beneath her, and began to walk lightly towards the kitchen door. But it was so beautiful, they all were. How could something so beautiful have to be destroyed? Once she had found it, once she had held it in her hands, she knew she would always remember it. It would be a part of Tabitha Penwright, and its mortality weighted heavily in her mind. Once it had gone, it would never exist again: extinct. Nothing anyone could do could ever revive it. And she was the assassin.

Little was available in the kitchen and Tabitha's eye was drawn towards the pantry. This memory must be quite an old one; in the cold store there was some cheese and ham and the bread, a sort of off-white colour, had a knife next to it, inviting her to cut a slice. Could she do it? He'd asked her that, he who thought he was in control of what she would be doing. What she would be doing, what she was doing, was a natural thing, inevitable, something that would have to be done. It was like asking Isambard Brunel to design and build a bridge: absurdly simple. But if felt he needed to feel he was in charge then she would not be the one to shatter the illusion. Tabitha bit into her sandwich, the saltiness of the ham tingling on her tongue.

Sometimes the world, where other people lived, was so complicated. Mysteries, on the other hand, they were the simple things, things which could be easily understood. A few more bites later and Tabitha had sated her appetite. And just in time too. The rickety front gate standing at the bottom of the garden path swung open and three children, laughing and chatting, bustled through it. Tabitha looked up, at her umbilical cord of a rope. While the people in these memories could not see or interact with her Tabitha felt more than a little awkward as an observer in the memory and chose to let it get on with itself. She shinned up, looking down as the children bowled through the wooden-planked door, chatting loudly, before calling out for Gran.

Perhaps a thicker memory, an older one, would be a better resting place. Older ones had denser clouds and they were quite comfortable to sleep on. Tabitha looked around on the horizon, hoping that the memory she sought was not so thick that it was impenetrable.

Getting comfortable, her rucksack doubling as a pillow, Tabitha reached subconsciously for her throat, her mind reviewing, for want of a better word, the day's work. Then she sat back up suddenly. Her necklace, her locket on the chain. A family hand-me-down. It was gone.

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As the sun, shrouded in morning mist filtered through the thin nylon curtains Cecilia realised that she had woken up in the cottage's living room. She stared at the green and brown striped pattern as she tried to work out why it was she was here and not upstairs in bed. She stared at the horizontal lines as the dust in the air sparkled in the sunlight.

It took Cecilia a few minutes to register that she had a feeling in her stomach, as if she had got to the highest point of an Alton Towers rollercoaster and was about to plummet over the imagined abyss. What was this feeling?

And then, a few minutes later the evening before dawned on her, slowly and creeping, as if losing the duvet cover in the night with the realisation that you are entirely exposed to the elements as real as the emptiness and despair that was writhing inside. Cecilia folded her arms round herself and pictured her son, little Septimus, bounding down the stairs at any moment, full of excitement and trepidation at his impending journey and she forced the feeling of hatred that she felt for her brother-in-law and the to-be enforced separation imposed on them that hung about her like an odour into a corner of her mind, screwing up her eyes and fists in the effort.

Cecilia opened her eyes as the rage passed, the emotion turning to sadness. Unbidden teardrops filled her eyes and they dropped onto the settee where she still lay, horizontal, darkening the fabric where they fell. She was still trapped by wizards: no matter what she did there was always going to be wizards, pulling the strings. And she'd just agreed, blithely and happily, to allow her son to go to their wretched school. If she had had any sense at all she would have taken Septimus that night and ran, risking imprisonment, yes. But her conscience would be clear. Cecilia had been amazed that she was still at the cottage herself that morning.

But of course, she couldn't put him through that. Cecilia thought of the day she had had with Septimus, in Diagonalley, the wonder of his wand choosing him; buying the things he would need for the school he wanted – yes, _wanted _– to attend. Yes, she had bought him an expensive broom, which he loved, but it was the strength of his mother he needed, which he _deserved_. The broom wouldn't buy the love he'd missed in the last two years, and in the months to come, if she were to be interned again at the Durmstrang Institute.

Cecilia sat up, bending forward so far that her forehead almost touched her knees. She also knew that she had been focusing on their visit to Diagonally to avoid thinking about Remus, her beloved husband, whom she could not help…but again fall to the mercy of wizards and their will to help.

None of that mattered now: Septimus would be gone so very soon and she knew she would have to face her it: whether British or an island off Norway it would make little odds; her destination was a rock in the middle of the North Sea. The only difference was that dementors did not guard Durmstrang.

As he descended the stairs Caelius thought it best to say nothing to Cecilia, her head bent in supplication. He trod lightly and turned right, heading into the kitchen. Whether she had registered his presence Caelius did not know, but she did not look up.

It made perfect sense of course. It fitted Caelius's behaviour, it was predictable, given the antecedents. Cecilia looked at the brown swirls on the cream background of the carpet, a part of her mind stilling her emotions by comparing the sweeps of the curls, like chocolate sauce in custard. She had challenged his authority, yes. But it did not make it any easier to take, to be punished like that. And Caelius had made it clear to her that she would be the one who would tell Septimus this time.

But she knew that she would not – _could _not – show this to Septimus. She would keep it in: all would be normal for her son as he got ready for his first journey on the Hedgewards Express and his first day at secondary school. It was now up to her to give the performance of a lifetime, practised to a T, giving bad news to her son but making it seem unimportant.

Cecilia raised her head and looked around her. The cottage's living room, so welcoming yesterday, now felt cold and distant. But she knew she was thinking rationally now, if she was planning She was even thinking rationally now, pushing her emotion far down into her. Like a volcano it would, in time, erupt violently, but now all Cecilia could think about were their immediate plans: had Septimus got everything he needed? Had they enough food so he could at least take some sandwiches – she didn't want him to go hungry. Had she put aside enough money, had Septimus all he needed for school?

It wouldn't be long until his broom and Mervyn would be sent on, destined for the Hedgewards Express's luggage compartments. An expert in magical creatures travelled with the animals that were too unwieldy to travel with the students (mostly owls, but also snakes and cats) and the brooms had their own section lest they got damaged. The Call would come between 9 and 10 that morning - Septimus would have to hurry if he was to make his owl's cage respectable for the long journey north.

The cuckoo clock struck six, which drew Cecilia's attention to the time. Three hours. Septimus would not be up yet and she wouldn't wake him just yet. The last time in his own bed, well, his bed. His own bed was back in Dalton Drive, in Edgeford, at hers and Remus's house. The point was…the point…he needed his sleep. Cecilia shook her head and made her way over to the fireplace.

The fire crackled green as she tossed a small sprinkle of her special floo powder into the hearth. It was inevitable, so early in the morning, that no-one would be around at that time in the morning, but she left a message for Freya in any case. It was short, but spoke briefly of the past being just so. A second message more cryptic, but with enough words to allow it to be understood whilst, at the same time, not understood when, and it had to be when, Caelius checked the floo network.

A creak to her left prompted Cecilia to look in the direction of the kitchen and she saw Caelius push the door open carrying two steaming mugs. Hastily Cecilia folded up the paper in which the powder was contained and held it in her hand before turning to Caelius Lupin and getting to her feet. Neither said a word as he handed Cecilia a mug of black tea but found the civility to be able to nod in acknowledgement. He said nothing, pausing as he handed it to her before making his way upstairs. Halfway up he stopped, looking down.

"I'll be accompanying you both to Platform 8 7/8ths." He smiled a little. "I wouldn't miss Septimus's first day for the world."

When Septimus got up, an hour and a half later it was with the spirit of a newborn spring lamb. He'd washed and dressed without being prompted (yes, miracles _did_ happen, apparently) and bounded downstairs, full of life. Cecilia;s brooding was instantly shelved and she felt the automation of the mother she needed to be click into place. He was thrilled when his broom, which he carefully brought down from his room as if it were the crown jewels, and Mervyn too, treated with equal care, were collected by a Hedgewards Express guard, the knock causing the little owl to shriek in alarm as he arrived at the back door. Septimus, with due ceremony presented both to the little stout man, who saluted him, as Cecilia hung back in the kitchen, and congratulated him on his place at the school.

The second miracle was that Septimus had already packed everything he was taking into a bug trunk that had belonged to his father. It still had evidence of grafitti, knocks and scrapes (it had been used as a sledge on more than one occasion by Remus, Sirius and James down the stairs at Hedgewards, according to Lily) and he had put everything he needed into it. Cecilia had insisted on checking and had been quietly impressed by her son's meticulousness – he'd included everything necessary, though perhaps a few too many copies of "Quidditch Quarterly". After his breakfast, during which she had absent-mindedly set fire to the kitchen blinds by letting the toast burn, Septimus asked her about what Durmstrang was like; was it like Hedgewards, what were the professors like.

It had caught her off guard when he'd asked and Cecilia had wondered aloud that she was sure she had already spoken to him about it. Her son insisted that she had not and it had taken all her strength to enter a discourse, as if he were a student and Cecilia was dealing in cold, hard facts. She told him it was high up in the mountains, it was cold, but that was supposed to be good for thinking. The rocks were volcanic – Septimus said Julian would be keen – and that Hedgewards would be exciting, far more exciting than Durmstrang, where they couldn't even play Quidditch without returning to the mainland. Not that it was encouraged among the students there, Cecilia added to herself and, in that moment, felt very sorry for he students of the Institute, holed up there, their prime purpose academic pursuits.

"There's some professors you'll like at Hedgewards," Cecilia continued as the thought of no quidditch for the Durmstrangers continued to astound her son. "Professor Longbottom, now – what he doesn't know about magical plants isn't worth knowing."

"Really mum?"

"He out-geeks me at any rate."

"So, what will it be like when I get there?"

"You'll travel by boat, across the Great Lake; you'll enter the dungeon entrance, then go though to the Great Hall." From the other side of the living room Uncle Kay spoke to his nephew. "The Sorting Hat will decide which house you'll be in, then there'll be the feast." He made his way towards Septimus, putting his arm around him. Cecilia tried not to let her anger show as Septimus snuggled into him, resisting the urge to wrench him away from her son."

"There's Slytherin and Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and – "

"Hufflepuff," finished Septimus. "I know. I read about it."

"Just so," nodded Caelius. The houses had the same names; that was one thing that had been hotly contested and met the strongest resistance when he had brought up with the Reciprocators, the Ministry and the teachers at Hedgewards as something worth changing in lieu of inclusion. It seemed that while it was fine to alter the curriculum to change the identities of the houses was tantamount to sacrilege.

It wasn't long till they were standing outside King's Cross Station, walking along platforms eight and nine in search of the secret entrance to Platform 8 7/8ths. Septimus was excited, his joy increasing when he found Julian, who was pondering, as he was, the entrance.

"It is all right for Julian to go through, isn't it Uncle Kay?" Septimus asked, "and Mum?" Caelius stooped to Septimus's level.

"Yes. It's been arranged." He pointed past his nephew and to an innocuous supporting arch wall." Just take a run at it, with your trolley. Then make sure you move out of the way; you don't want to be bumped by the next person."

As Septimus, shortly followed by Julian and his parents, negotiated the secret entrance to the Hedgewards Express's platform a shadow grew over Cecilia's mind. The conversation that she had been dreading all morning was looming in her mind: it was imminent and she was not at all certain how she would say it.

"Our turn," Caelius said to Cecilia, ushering her towards the entrance too. Had it not been for the fact that she was lost in her own thoughts about Septimus Cecilia might easily have turned round and thumped him. She resisted, not least because he'd make it her problem then.

The platform was bustling. Children, greeting one another and hugging, parents, wizards and non-wizards alike, greeting one another and chatting. Students compared purchases and talked about school; some had found their seats already and stowed away their cases and trunks. Some people were fighting their way to the guard van with owls, hoping that they could be taken in – one man was having a conversation with the guard, clearly he was a non-wizard, because he was telling the stout, black-moustachioed wizard guard that he had had no message or information to tell him that his daughter's elegant tawny owl had to be sent on ahead.

Around them wizards and witches from some families seemed to have outdone themselves in dressing for the occasion – several had come with full wizardly regalia, as if trying to show who could wear the most elegant or elaborate clothing. It was as if people had turned up in black tie and ball dresses to see off their children and aforementioned children had also been bought, which they were already wearing before they had even had the call to change, the most expensive robes money could buy.

Cecilia held her breath a few times – the crowd seemed oppressive and she felt like taking Septimus in her arms and dragging him back onto the main platform until the hubbub had died away. She tried to focus her mind on something else but the weight of her impending task and eventual destination began to play on her mind.

Then she caught sight of Petunia Black who, from the other end of the platform waved to Cecilia as Regulus helped their younger son Darren onto the train at that end. Petunia seemed to be trying to shout to her but, above the noise, it was drowned out.

"I suppose you've got everything you need, Septimus," said Mr. Scott, Julian's father to Septimus. "Julian told you about your broomstick, he said it was a good one."

"The best," smiled Septimus, looking up at Cecilia. She smiled back and hugged him briefly. "I didn't know whether I should buy Julian something," Mr. Scott added, looking down at him. "I mean, in case he can't fly one. There's plenty there, so I understand, and if Julian gets on with them there's always Christmas."

"I'll try, Dad," replied Septimus's friend.

"I know you will, son." Cecilia noticed the look of sadness pass over Septimus's face. _He_ wanted Remus to be there, of course he did. His own father, being too ill to be able to see him off on the most important day of his school life.

"I've brought some of my fossils I got on holiday," Julian continued, rummaging around in his pockets." The darkness lifted as Septimus was instantly enthralled. "Bridport. Not as good as Lyme Regis."

"Cool!"

"We'll go there next summer," promised Mr. Scott.

There had been some protests at the station that morning. Wizards with placards had picketed the entrance. "Wizards for Hedgewards," some of them had read, "The right schools for the right children." Tame in comparison to the conjurist protests over the last couple of nights. Caelius looked at the crowd. The daytime façade was present amongst them; those wizards dressing in the traditional manner, having arrived in full robes to the station, inner lining patterns of Auld Magic symbols. Their dress, which could be traced back to ancient families, had encouraged their children to dress the same, even though their garb was not school uniform. A subtle protest and easily explained. Of course, many of them had dressed in such a way because they always did; there were always traditionalists every 1st September. But the spirit conjurism was there, in the air, hammering home the unspoken hierarchy of wizards. Other evidence had not been so subtle and it had taken strong magic to erase the circled Cs, twisted Auld Magic symbols that they were, which had been daubed both on King's Cross itself and on the walls of Platform 8 7/8ths.

The attacks had, as usual, been sporadic, isolated, concentrated on towns which neighboured open heath, wood and moorland. Shops had been attacked and homes set on fire; not many, but enough to establish a crude pattern. Whereas attacks before had concentrated on non-wizards, this time wizards known to be sympathetic to non-wizard liberty in the magical world were targeted. A subtle shift in strategy.

Not that it appeared to bothered the students much; as usual there was a clamour on the station; few may have interpreted the meaning of the traditionalists and, of course, the non-wizard families, adults and children alike, would be none-the-wiser.

Five minutes to go. Cecilia looked up at the large-faced, double sided clock with Roman numerals pointing out the time with its graceful hands. It wouldn't be long until the train left and already the concentration of people had lessened as more and more children found a seat aboard the coaches.

"Shall we get on now, too?" Julian had looked at his dad and mum, his sister Opal hugging onto her mother, both aghast and in wonder at where she was. Mr. Scott looked at his wristwatch.

"Well, they said noon. I can help you on with your bag, lad. And you too, Septimus." He walked towards the nearest door, stepping easily aboard with both his son's case and Septimus's trunk in either hand. A minute or so later he was back on the platform.

"There's an empty compartment just here; I've put your bags in the storage area." He looked at Cecilia, then at Caelius.

"Yes, yes," replied Caelius, ushering Septimus towards the carriage door. "Time to go." Septimus turned back, hugging his Uncle Kay as Julian hugged his dad and mum (Opal shied away; Julian shrugged, before giving her an unexpected kiss on the cheek, which she wiped away, annoyed). Then, catching Cecilia's expression, Caelius stepped away from Septimus and she walked close by him to the doorway.

Leaning towards him, as if to kiss, Cecilia whispered in his ear. He was going to be away for a few months. They needed the money, and it paid well at Durmstrang, especially now Dad was ill. She had to look after both him and Remus. Septimus turned back to his mother sharply, looking up at her with wide eyes.

"You could…you could see if shop will take broom back," Septimus replied earnestly. Cecilia said nothing – she couldn't. It took all of her courage not to break down there and then on the platform. She would have not been the only mother; many were sobbing as they saw their offspring off on the train. Cecilia fixed him with a firm stare.

"Your father and I had agreed, we'd always said we'd get you the best broom we could. Besides, I'd only get bored at home." She leaned in to him, whispering close to his ear. "You can write to me anytime. I can still be in touch about Dad; go and see him if anytime. I'll let you know if anything changes." Cecilia could feel her voice was calm, so much so that a part of her was almost convinced.

"I can't floo you in Durmstrang, from Hedgewards."

"I know," she says loudly. "It won't be long before I see you, my love." She kissed him, holding his face momentarily between her hands. "Stay safe, my darling." Cecilia stood back and Septimus continued the walk towards the carriage door. Then, without warning, she ran back: Caelius thought for a moment that she was going to jump on the train with them. Septimus turned again and smiled at his mother.

"It's OK. I'll know where you are this time, mum." Cecilia's worried expression turned into a smile and Septimus hugged her. She held onto him momentarily before kissing him on the forehead. Then, bending to his level she passed him what was left of the non-wizard floo powder.

"You can use it to contact me anytime, little Tim," she said hurriedly, pushing it into the inside pocket of his robe as quickly as she could. Then, resisting one last hug, for she knew she might never let him go, Cecilia stepped back as Septimus climbed aboard, appearing at the window of the nearest compartment, and waving.

As the train whooshed out a cloud of steam, the wheels groaning as they began to turn under the pressure, Cecilia waved too, continuing to do so until the last carriage was out of sight.

When she reluctantly turned from the track Cecilia felt a lurch in her stomach. Telling Septimus hadn't been the cause of her malcontent – no. It was still lingering, deep down, in the depths of her insides. The reality of her leaving was now growing as if cumulo-numbus clouds on the horizon of a clear blue sky, portending a storm.

"I don't think it'll take long to collect my belongings," Cecilia began, her first words to Caelius that day, acknowledging her fate so that the shock wouldn't hit her too soon and so she wouldn't break down in tears until she was well out of Caelius's company.

"I suppose, this afternoon I'll have things ready?" She could at least check the hearth, see if either of her messages had been replied to. "I'm it won't be any later than this evening. Then perhaps you can take me to say goodbye to Remus and – " Cecilia broke off, the look on Caelius's face was enough to tell her that she was treading the wrong path entirely.

"On the contrary I've sent your belongings on already," he replied, his tone one of familiar neutrality. "You won't be going back to the cottage. Take my arm. I'm going to floo you to Durmstrang now."


	30. Northward Ho!

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The scenery through the double-slatted, 1920s coach windows flitted faster and faster as the Hedgewards Express increased speed. Septimus drew his eyes from the landscape which was leaving behind the softer, delicate features of the chalky South, the Midlands' Permian sedimentaries and now heading towards the Precambrian features of the British Isles. In short, and without Julian's geological commentary, they were heading north.

Julian had gone to find the lady in charge of the sweet trolley so that he could try out his wizard money on wizard food and treats, leaving the carriage, in which they, and another boy, Darren Black, were sharing on their journey. The latter young wizard had spoken to neither him or Julian in the four hours that they had been under way and, like Septimus had been doing while he waited for his friend, been staring silently out of the window.

The atmosphere was one of excitement and anticipation. Every so often students passed the carriage, down the corridor; giggling girls chattering and boys clearly up to magical mischief being pursued by older students striding purposefully in their wake. An hour ago a sleek black cat, which should have been stowed in the guard's van stalked into their carriage through the open door unnoticed and settled down on one of the seats near Julian, its owner, another non-wizard who (he explained) had brought the family cat following half an hour later and retrieving the sleeping animal ("There she is!" "Sorry about that!" "Come on, puss.")

"It's busy down there." Julian's head appeared around the carriage's open door, grinning at Septimus. "The lady's down in the buffet car; I didn't think I'd get anything. The queue was long. Look!" He opened his hand. Inside was a packet of fizzing whizbees. "I wonder what they're like?"

"Like swallowing a helium balloon," replied Septimus, who had some experience of wizard sweets. "Perhaps not on the train, you might float out of the window. Anything else?" Julian looked down and rummaged in his pocket, pulling out some string, a couple of rocks and a crumpled piece of paper and put them on the small armrest-table just inside the door. "Yes." He frowned. "Pink coconut ice – that's a normal sweet; a couple of charmed chocolates…" Julian squinted. "Every flavour beans?"

"Yes," replied Septimus. Though he rarely got sweets Uncle Kay had spoiled him over the holidays and his repertoire of wizard sweets that he had sampled had increased a great deal. "Every flavour. Including some really disgusting ones."

"Really?"

"Think of something yuck, and there'll be a bean in that flavour," he added. Julian stared at the box in amazement. "Here. You try first."

"Bubblegum," said Septimus, chewing tentatively on the jellybean which Julian had tipped into his hand as his friend watched, in rapt expectation, a laugh ready on his lips. "Your turn."

"Coconut," Julian declared, "nice. Perhaps I've been lucky." As he sat down Julian tipped out the rest of the box onto his aluminium foil in which his sandwiches had been expertly wrapped (with hospital corners) by his mother and the friends shared them.

"You've been to Hedgewards Sep, what's it like?" To Julian's right the boy, who had purported to be asleep stirred. "Is it exciting?"

"I reckon so. It's like you'd expect a magical castle to be like. Towers and dungeons, staircases that move. Pictures where the _people in them_ move…"

"What about the stone? Local?" Septimus smiled.

"I don't know…could be." I'm sure you'll tell me the second minute we're there. Could be anything; it's magical, remember?" Julian nodded, choosing a green speckled bean.

"But the place is cool," Septimus continued, giggling as Julian's face crumpled, screwing up his eyes ("rhubarb and chilli – yuck!") before spitting it into a tissue. "They've got a forest and lots of classrooms, and big library, a nursery for plants and a quidditch pitch."

"Like they have on wizard telly?" Septimus nodded, picking a pinky yellow one. He smiled. Cherry and custard. "Damn you, Septimus Remus Lupin. Thanks yours next!" he declared, pointing to a white one with brown speckles. He picked up a green one. "Lime..." then frowned in horror, "and pepper!" He spat this one out too. "Who is this man, Bertie Bott!" Septimus picked up the white one.

"Vanilla. Delicious," he added, rubbing it in. Julian kicked him in the ankle. "Well, you did say…"

"I don't expect I'll get a chance to play, what with it being a wizard game. I mean, you've got your broom, a great one, by the look of it, but I won't be able to fly one on my own. Don't they have football?" Septimus shook his head, noticing Darren Black turn his head, glance in his direction before turning away again.

"Just quidditch," he said, getting to his feet.

"Where're we going?"

"To the buffet car. Don't you want to play the Bertie Bott game again?"

"But they've run out," said Julian, "I bought the last box of jellybeans.

"They won't have," Septimus replied, watching as a group of children hurried along the corridor past their carriage. "The woman will just magic some more."

"Cool!" Julian turned right, following Septimus out of the compartment, round the corner to the carriage interface to the buffet car, the ground fleetingly visible as they stepped over it, and into a carriage which was filled with children of all ages, sitting and standing, chatting and laughing, waiting for the elderly witch who reigned supreme over the snack bar to reappear with the treats they wanted.

Julian and Septimus joined the long queue that snaked around the buffet car, amongst pairs and threes of wizards – and non-wizards Septimus added to himself – enjoying their fare.

"That boy in our carriage, do you know him?"

"He's mum's friend's son," Septimus replied, nodding in the plump witch's reappearance behind the counter and the surge of now-expectant chatter as she laid out the goodies. "Darren Black. I know him. Well, know of him."

"Not very talkative, is he?" Septimus shook his head. They stepped forward as the queue shifted. To one side Septimus saw Sam Potter, on his way with a tall, willowy girl with long white hair down to her legs walking with him.

"Hello, Septimus," he said, smiling at him. "How are you? And your friend here…"

"Julian," said Julian, looking up.

"All right," said Septimus. "Just getting some sweets."

"It won't be long now till we get there," Sam replied, "don't spoil your appetite though; the feast we'll have when we get there's worth the wait." As they continued on Julian turned to Septimus.

"You know him, then?"

"Yes, he's a sixth year."

"He's a prefect," Julian replied, "or at least, I think so. His badge actually said "perfect" said Julian.

"It does indeed," grinned Sam, who was just behind them as Julian stood stock still. "Crystallia has quite a sense of humour." Just as Septimus was about to say something the attention of many of them at that end of the buffet car was drawn to a young boy who seemed to be frenetically hunting for something.

"…have you seen her…?" The boy, looking to be about his and Julian's age, pushed past them, looked past the group of girls sitting and standing around a small table on the opposite side of the carriage, looking bewildered as he moved one of their bags so he could look under it as one of the girls grabbed it back with an horrified "hey!" "My cat…she's black," the boy continued, "mum's cat." He moved towards Septimus and Julian, pushing between them to look behind the snack bar trolley, met within seconds by a loud "hmph!" from the witch and the boy turned back, looking up at both of them before pushing past again.

"What's she like?" asked Julian.

"Have you seen her?" asked the boy. Julian shook his head.

"She's a black cat," he repeated, "quite small. It's all we had that might have been remotely magical. Mum insisted, but I knew I'd lose her."

"You're a non wizard too?"

"What gave it away, no wand?" Julian nodded.

"Me too. Hope you find your cat."

"Blackie! Blackie!" he continued to call as the boy continued his search down the rest of the buffet car as both boys shuffled up the now-moving queue.

"What's it like, having a wand?" Julian asked.

"Not sure," replied Septimus honestly. "I haven't really tried it. Uncle Kay said to save it till I got to Hedgewards, so I can be taught properly."

"But you can do magic; I've seen you…" Septimus nodded.

"Yeah, a bit, but only when I needed to. Hedgewards teaches you how to do it when you want to. Here." Out of his robe Septimus pulled the hawthorn wood and held it out to his friend. Julian took a step back.

"Go on, give it a hold." Septimus continued to hold it out and Julian slowly reached forward, closing his hand around it. When nothing happened his friend's confidence grew. He swished it around in the air and still nothing happened.

"You've not got the genes, said Septimus matter-of-factly. Julian's face creased into a frown.

"Mum told me. Inside, we're made up of these bits, genes, wizards have certain bits and non-wizards have others. Wizards who need help have some of them, but not all, so they find it difficult."

Julian stared at the wand again before holding it high and saying loudly "Abracadabra!" Whole carriage erupted in laughter, Julian bowed, grinning. Septimus grinned too and took back the wand when Julian held it towards him.

"She's selling wands, by the look of it," Julian said, craning his neck towards the sweet trolley.

"Liquorice," said Septimus as Julian watched amazed as a girl ten people ahead of them bought one and bit off the end. Just then, the chatter and hubbub came it an abrupt halt, as if the "mute" button had been pressed on a remote control, as a boy began to shout at a much younger boy to their right.

"How dare you! Give it back to her!" He was standing over the boy, who was trembling, the presumably borrowed wand in his hand shaking as he held it out to the equally scared girl. The older boy wheeled round to her.

""Don't EVER give your wand to anyone, understand me? Especially not a…_non_ wizard." He said the words as if they were poison on his tongue and loomed over the terrified boy menacingly Septimus watched as Sam, within seconds and seemingly out of nowhere, appeared by the boy's side.

"Blewitt? Anything the matter?"

Fraser Blewitt turned his steely gaze to Sam, eyeing him up and down, glancing momentarily at his prefect's badge before giving him a look of contempt.

"This boy here…taking my sister's wand…"

"I let him borrow it…he didn't do anything with it, Fraser," stammered the girl, her voice quiet but pleading, her eyes big. She looked beseechingly at her brother before turning her gaze to Sam. Sam looked down at her, into her hazel eyes that shimmered with tears, before smiling warmly.

"Nothing happened because he's – " Sam glanced at the boy, "what's your name?"

"Guh-guh-Gordon S-s-springs sir," replied the boy, his face pale. Sam looked at the girl. "because Gordon Springs can't do magic, Ariella, so there's no harm done, is there?" He looked back at the older boy and nodded as if that settled the matter. Fraser Blewitt snorted before stalking off in the opposite direction, his sister in tow, protesting all the way.

"Blimey, some people take things seriously, eh?" said Julian as sound returned from its temporary absence to the carriage and shuffled up the line.

"Some wizards are like that," said Septimus, eyeing up the eye-popping candy, "but not all of them. Lots of them are nice to non-wizards. You'll see."

"Hello." A voice behind them, soft and thin reached Septimus's ears. He turned around to find a boy of their age hovering around. His pale skin and shoulder-length wavy dark hair seemed familiar but before Septimus could continue trying to figure it out he added, "you're Septimus Lupin, aren't you?" Septimus nodded as Julian grinned.

"And I'm Julian. Julian Scott." The dark-haired, pale-faced boy looked at him, expressionless, before looking back at Septimus.

"My mum and dad work at the Ministry with your uncle."

"Oh," said Septimus, nodding neutrally, wondering what this strange boy was talking about and he nudged Julian in the ribs behind him as he heard him stifle a giggle.

"I'm Rufus Lestrange," continued the boy. "Rufus _T_. Lestrange," he added, emphasising the initial. "My mum are Bellatix and Rodolphus Lestrange," he added.

"Uncle Kay's never mentioned them," Septimus replied, nudging Julian harder, before hissing, "_stop it!_" "But he doesn't talk much about his work," he added to Rufus.

"What music do you like? The Zombie heads? Green Knight? I've got loads of tracks on my Portable." He held up a triangle with a glowing sphere above, wires attached, like a non-wizard mp3 player to earphones.

"Not like this," said Julian, holding up his i-pod. "_Thousands_ of tracks on here."

"I didn't know you could keep music on a pensieve," said Septimus, intrigued, ignoring Julian, who was on a one-man wind-up mission. Actually, now he glanced around the buffet car there were a lot of people with pensieves, people sending messages to one another even though they were sitting next to the person – pointless; projecting pictures onto the carriage walls and floor and, now he looked, people using and sharing earphones.

"Oh yes, you can fit lots of songs on. What about the Mightily Blue Megastar Miles off the Main Sequence? I've got their latest album already. Mum," he added, winking in a way that he himself clearly thought was surreptitious.

"Sorry, don't know much about music," said Septimus, wizard or non-wizard, he added, looking back at Julian. His friend wasn't much one for music either, but he was one for japes.

"Me either," confirmed Julian, pushing the i-pod back into his pocket. "I've only got three songs on it, and one of those is, "Star Trekkin'" " added Julian, shrugging his shoulders.

"Oh. Pity," said Rufus T. Lestrange, and he turned, heading in the direction where he had come from, nodding his head, his curls bouncing to the beat. Septimus turned back to look at his friend, frowning at the discourse that he just been a part of.

"Was it just me, or…"

"…his earphones weren't even in," finished Septimus, laughing.

"Barmy," said Julian, tapping the side of his forehead, stepping before the smiling witch.

"And what can I get you, dear?"

Having got some juicy jawstickers and two ounces of Black Coals from Newcastle they headed back towards the carriage.

"They really are coal!" said Julian, amazed, holding them up as only a geologist could. "Anthracite. And probably really from Newcastle – they're a rich black; not like the browny-black stuff from Wales and the Midlands."

"I believe you," said Septimus, pushing the sliding partition door aside. "We can give it to the magical creatures teacher for the dragon."

"Really? There's a dragon?" Julian's eyes sparkled in wonder, following Septimus back in.

"A miniature one, to teach the basics to us anatomy. It burned three students just before the summer. They were in St. Mungo's when I went." Julian did not press him; he knew what his friend meant and that he didn't like talking about his dad.

"The everlasting gobstoppers seem quite tasty." Septimus raised his eyebrow as he sat down.

You have to look on the side, is there a date?" Julian popped it out of his mouth and it dropped stickily into his hand.

"Yes, 1844."

"That's when it was made. Recycling, you see"

"Yeurch! Julian spat it into a tissue and threw it into his pocket in disgust. As he was about to sit down too there was a warning hiss from beneath. Julian looked down. A black cat opened one shoebutton eye and glared at him.

"But it's my seat!" said Julian protested, making to push off the cat, but it glared at him again before dropping its head into its paws. Julian shook his head, glancing at Darren, who appeared to have gone to sleep, before sitting next to the sleeping wizard.

"Do you think that's the cat the other boy was looking for? His family's cat?" Septimus shrugged.

"Dunno. Might be. Looks comfortable there."

"Doesn't look particularly magical," said Julian, putting his feet up between the cat and Septimus.

"Not many magical creatures do, especially not cats. Their magic is, well, what just happened. She made you move for her. It's all in the mind."

"Typical," said Julian shuffling to get a comfortable spot. "Our cat's just the same. It's what they say: dogs have owners, cats have staff."

"Ha ha!" laughed Septimus, offering Julian a sherbet lemon and wondering if he should offer one to Darren, or at least wake him up. Just then the boy who had been looking for his cat walked past pushing past a some girls carrying food, looking flustered.

"Oi" they protested, "watch it!" Julian got to his feet and bounded over to the compartment door.

"Hey, is this your cat?" he shouted down the corridor. The boy turned back and headed back.

"Blackie!" he pushed past Julian, an expression of relief and joy in his face. "I'm so glad to see you!" Scooping the cat up in the crook of his arm he glanced between Septimus and Julian momentarily.

"Thanks," he said, "I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost her."

"Right, are you up for a game of "Top Trumps"?" asked Septimus stowing away the rest of the sweets. "I don't think I could eat the feast if I have many more. Julian put his away too, taking care to fold up his couple of "Coals" to add to his rocks collection that his mother had refused to let him bring with him.

"What's wizard food like?"

"It's mostly normal really, but arrives quickly and can be refilled. Elf magic's at work at Hedgewards, so mum says. She also says that she feels very sorry or the elves and you should treat them with respect for all the work the do. That's if it's the same as in the summer."

"What do you mean?"

"There's been some changes because of non-wizards coming. But most will be the same, so said Uncle Kay. But, if it's the same, when we get there we go on boats across the Black Lake and arrive in the dungeons."

"Cool!" Julian got out his "Premier League" football Top Trumps and began to shuffle them.

"That's just the first years. Dad told me." He took the cards that Julian was holding out to him, shaking his head. Nani. A good one but he knew from shuffling through the pack that Julian must have Eric Cantona.

"Then we go to the Great Hall for the Sorting Hat. It tells you what house you're going to be in. Uncle Kay said they wanted to change the names, to Black, Avery, Jones and Sisher – they were influential Reciprocators – but the Headmaster wanted to keep the original names.

"I wonder what house we'll be in – I hope it'll be the same one. Skill.

"Skill 9"

"Skill 8. Torres."

"Nani. Thanks," said Septimus, taking both the cards and putting them face down on the seat next to him.

"I wonder what it'll be like when we get there, we can't do magic," added Julian, a little despondency in his voice.

"You can still do lots of things; you can still learn about magic. And there's magical creatures, herbology, astronomy…wizard chess...diopoly…and you can ride on my Lightningshot, just as soon as I learn how to myself…"

"…and those pensieves that everyone seems to have," said Julian. "Not that I want one, or could afford it. Mum might be able to check up on me. Besides, I really do only have 3 tracks on my i-pod."

"Look," said Septimus, putting down his cards. "It'll be cool. You'll be learning proper lessons, all of the wizard lessons are also non-wizard lessons too. Uncle Kay said they had to offer the same as normal state schools, else they couldn't take non-wizards." Julian nodded and looked back to his cards. Septimus picked up his too.

"OK," he said, reading the card categories. "Strategy."

"6."

"4," replied Septimus, holding out his "Giggs. Who'd you have?"

"Ronaldo."

"Ronaldo? That seems low for Ronaldo."

As the boys played "Trumps" then pored over the "Weasley Wizard Wheezes" catalogue that Julian had picked up from Diagonalley when his mother refused to buy him anything from the shop (she knew her son), giggling over potential practical jokes the landscape galloped past as they headed north.

88888888

Albus Dumbledore moved his queen from her position next to the rook diagonally so it faced the white king. She withdrew the double swords from her back-scabbards and held them stonily.

"Things are falling into position," he said, looking across at Gellert Grindelwald.

Gridelwald shifted, staring at the board in front of him. The knight to his King's left whinnied – clearly it thought it had a contribution to make. His hand hovered over it momentarily.

"Indeed. As are the people we need." He looked at his lover, who appeared to be as intent as he was appearing to be with their chess match. "And of the objects, Albus? What progress?" Dumbledore broke away from his strategic thinking and looked at Grindelwald.

"Care is needed. There is a need to be careful. A precarious situation, as you know"

"Careful? Or afraid?" Around them, in the otherwise clear blue sky, thunder rolled and hail immediately fell from the sky.

"Not afraid. You need to understand the delicacy of the situation, Gellert. You are the master of all you survey; you have the people you need and are apt at puppeteering. The person you need under your very hand."

"And that idiot of a minister back in Britain has organised that for us very neatly." Dumbledore shifted, watching his queen fold her swords in front of her, the chess equivalent of tapping her foot.

"It is down to your hard work," conceded Grindelwald.

"You are too impatient my love. All will work itself out, before the year is out."

"The year. Before." Grindelwald hovered his hand over the knight again. The horse's rider tried to reach up to pull on one of his fingers but it was in vain. "I've to visit the Rosstrappe several more times since then.

"Your ruthless streak never ceases to amaze me."

"You're to subtle, you're not there when your plans come to fruition." Tensions were rising, not least between black and white chessmen, who were eyeballing each other with menace.

"Yes, you see them through. Henrietta Edwards is beginning to be missed."

"It was predictable. She had to be eliminated." Grindelwald banged his hand next to the board, causing some of the pieces to bounce a little in the air. The black king was about to turn round in anger, but then thought better of it.

"Walpurgis Night is so far away. Why could we not do it at Halloween?"

"Because the third piece we need will not be ready."

"You are seriously saying that all could not be in place by the end of next month?" I am, thought Dumbledore, appearing to calculate Grindelwald's next move.

"Trust the wizard; he has not failed us in the last dozen years. He won't now. He will bring the third."

"_He will bring the third?_ We haven't the other two!"

"Trust, Gellert. That's what I rely on. Trust and blackmail. He has his agent in the ministry. And when the witches burn, the greatest weapon of all time will be ours."

"Ar Bealtaine" He picked up the knight, whose rider gave a small "high-five" to Grindelwald's index finger.

"The time, the only time. Walpurgis Night…Bealtaine…so weak…so easy…" Dumbledore moved his white Queen one space forward. The king was before her. No escape. A minute later and a beheaded king lay where once the proud leader of the black chessmen stood. Dumbledore looked Grindelwald, the game over. They would have to order a new chess-set; it would be quicker to count the pieces that had not been slaughtered that afternoon.

"It is not long, my love. Less than eight months." He got up from his chair and glided over to his pensieve, looking – searching – through the cloud-void.

88888888

She would be missed if she stayed there any longer. Looking between the two beds she thought about how it had been before Cecilia Lupin had returned. She had had the opportunity to come when she liked. It wasn't as if visits to Sirius and Remus weren't legitimate. But she had her own agenda.

She was more concerned with Remus than Sirius, of course, as were they all. It was horrifying. They needed to keep a light on Remus; the treatment he was receiving, recommended by Severus Snape depended on it. But it was hardly a cure. She leaned over and stroked his cheek.

They were alone. Or at least, the chance of being disturbed by Mrs Lupin had been eliminated. She looked between them and walked over to Sirius, who was still lifeless. He, of course, could not be treated until he showed signs of consciousness. She stroked away a tear, followed by a dozen more that replaced it. What could she do? What? How was her being there going to do any good?

Pray. Pray to any deity who might be listening, of any religion, of any historical period. It was at these times she wondered what use history really was. Medicine might have been more useful. Was this the world her sons would be growing up in?

She looked back at Remus and crumpled, kneeling beside his bed and wept. The woman's wake was not even cold and she'd dared to risk coming to see him? The audacity… but were she to walk a mile in her shoes…who would have done different under the circumstances?

As a pit of emptiness grew in her stomach she went, before she was missed.

88888888

A graveyard. Another resting place. Ironically it looked lovely on this sunny Saturday afternoon. Birds sang. Flowers spread their petals, to entice the last of the summer insects to the remainder of their pollen. The potential of life in a place for death.

Another gravestone. Of course the mind of Tom Riddle was beyond the veil. His bones were beneath. 31st December 1926 – 2nd May 2009. He had lived long. He had lived a noneventful life. Another him, in another place, might be doing things a little differently.

Tom Riddle.

He looked at the date again and could have sworn the digits flickered. It must have been the sunshine, so bright that it was in the dying days of August.


	31. Hedgewards Again

With the long-temporary vigil of a Reciprocator ever-present at Grimmauld Place came the unspoken responsibility of tea and food duties. Bathsheba Braddle found herself, on the 1st September the incumbent and, as she prepared sandwiches that she knew would be eaten within seconds of being seen by those out on duty in the light, airy space that was the house's living room a sense of expectation. Many of her colleagues had volunteered for watch at various points along the route that the Hedgewards Express would take and now, early evening, with a beautiful sunset dipping down between the roofs of the Georgian houses opposite.

It wasn't long before the first handful was back. Arabella Figg shook her flamboyantly-decorated hat and complained at the raincloud that Benjamin Wergs had taken them through as they watched from on high as the train wound and snaked through the country. Molly and Arthur Weasley were back next; the logistics of allowing the train its traditional non-stop route from London to Scotland his responsibility with negotiations each year with the train companies whose services would be temporarily affected. He'd returned via the Ministry, much to Molly's annoyance and Bathsheba knew that she had usurped Mrs Weasley's usual role of gastronomic matriarch at the Reciprocator headquarters. The sandwiches would be rearranged, she knew; more made and tea procured in greater quantities. Bathsheba predicted it would happen, with Molly's inimitable manner, and accepted it.

"Yo, 'Sheba!" As she brought out the refreshments Kingsley Shacklebolt strode coolly from his apparition spot, fixing her with a wide grin. "All good?"

"Good," Bathsheba nodded. "And with you, Kingsley?"

"All good," he confirmed, taking his place next to Arthur. "A fine view of a fine engine." He turned to his railway compatriot. "Your advice on the paint was smooth."

"Controversial, you mean," said Arthur grimly. "I mean, we all know that the Hall class were Brunswick green; LMS used Standard Red – a totally different engine altogether, the Coronation class, as well you know." Kingsley nodded slowly in a way that only enthusiasts can when they agree with a fellow nerd. "But we all know what people think of tradition. We've had howlers…we've had floo flames…we've had _pensieve mail_ clogging up the ministry network; the pensieve network has only ever been experimental and it received just over ten thousand p-mails before it crashed." He smiled at his wife as she presented Arthur with a cup of tea. "Thank you, my darling," he said. "Heaven knows what might have happened. 'The Hedgewards Express has always been red!" they say; "Give us back our Hedgewards Express!" Barbarians."

"I completely agree with you," said Kingsley, sipping at his tea which Bathsheba had brought out on a tray after Molly, whose encyclopaedic knowledge of the refreshment habits of every single Reciprocator member was legendary, made the drinks, "imagine what would have happened if Caelius had had the backing of the ministry, and the school staff to change the house names. There might have been a war on our hands."

The conversation around them stopped and the embarrassing situation of the last people to notice being the ones talking about slightly contentious topics was highlighted as Caelius Lupin sat don in the armchair opposite the sofa on which Kingsley, Arthur and Benjamin Wergs were occupying.

"Are we all back yet? I, at least, have met one of my New Years's resolutions now, not being the last to a meeting." He chuckled, as did one or two of the others. Around them a dozen reciprocators stood and he counted them off in his head.

"We're waiting for James," said Lily, who appeared from the kitchen. "If Mick's there he might be a while."

"Yes, they do like a chat, rather," said Bertie Griffin, grinning.

"And a drink in the Hogshead," nodded Lily darkly.

"We can wait. Preliminary reports from all I've spoken to report that the train arrived without incident and all students have safely been delivered to the school. Further – "

A crack, accompanied by a familiar light made everyone turn to the apparating member. James Potter, grinning widely, stepped from his entrance spot and nodded around him.

"You've started? Don't mind me," he added, waving his hand and walking over to the settee where Lily was sitting. "Hello, love," he whispered, putting his hand over Lily's before kissing her on the cheek. "Please, do continue, Caelius." Lily scowled at her husband and hissed, "where've you _been_?"

"As I was saying, James, all students have arrived at Hedgwards soundly. We were just about to report back. Perhaps you'd like to begin?"

As James Potter recounted his uneventful yet humorous role as overseer of the first years in their boats Caelius felt a little relieved at the light contrast to that of the Ministry meeting he had just overseen ten minutes before. Brief yet weighed down with triviality Caelius's Machiavellian patience had been worn extremely thin by the issues that had been brought forth, specifically over the names of the Hedgewards subjects and, as the meeting progressed, the avalanche of complaints at the change in livery of the Hedgewards Express steam loco.

The former had begun evenly enough: should the subjects be bracketed with their non-wizard name, but this led to the argument from some that this highlighted the inequality between the two student bodies. Surely, it was said, if the students were to be on a footing of equality, putting the non-wizard subjects in brackets immediately castigated non-wizards as second class. What, if not for the sake of equality, was the point of sending non-wizards to Hedgewards then, if they were immediately to face discrimination?

Another suggestion was to put a slash between the old names and new. This sounded good, but, Caelius pointed out, some subjects had been combined in new syllabus. And besides, said Dave Mullen, which name would take priority? The Ministry debated the point for over half an hour, settling on Mick Mullen's suggestion that both names would be in continual rotation on the doors of the rooms, changing their position depending on the topic being taught at any one time. The fact that many of the teachers weren't really sure what they were actually teaching, and many who would probably ignore the non-wizard aspect of the curriculum was a moot point that Caelius has yet to solve.

Letters, which Lucius Malfoy shared with the cabinet came from many old wizarding families, suspected Conjurists, attacking the legality of mixed schools. Several urged the Ministry to look to Durmsrang as a paradigm for elite education stating that they could not in all conscience allow their children to mix with non-wizards for their education. Caelius collected them together, glancing over them as Lucius outlined the further messages they had received and, it turned out, for every protest letter there was one in support, a surprising number in firm support.

"The students have arrived safely at school, Caelius. You've proved your point. Isn't it time now to stop this ludicrous experiment in integration, or at least postpone it until this dies down? We could collect the non-wizard children and return them to their families." Nods from, predictably, Dulcie Dainty and Evelyn Forteskew silently supported the Minister of Defence's suggestion.

"If we do that, they will push for more," said Caelius slowly. "This is about understanding. However, should any changes to the political or indeed home security, there is flexibility to review the arrangement at Hedgewards."

"Attacks are growing on the continent," interjected Lucius. "When I last visited Draco – his position is delicate as far as being the President of the Magical European Union – he did confer to me that there has been an increase in the prominence and frequency of use of the conjurist symbol. We know it's a different situation there, but – "

" – but still, should the landscape shift, so to speak, we may review our policy."

"On a different note," said Mick Mullen, "have you seen this evening's paper?" He unfolded the latest non-wizard London newspaper, the "Evening Standard". Many squinted at the inanimate picture on the front, but the headline was clear for all to see. "A protest to the conjurist challenge, from non-wizards themselves."

"You see? After all this time, untrustworthy!" declared Hervert Herbert, shaking his head.

"On the contrary, it calls for peaceful protest. It calls for positive relations. It even calls for forgiveness for all past witch-hunts and burnings – "

" – they never caught any of us – "

" – but they don't know that," replied Mick, evenly. "And anyway, it was nothing to those years of slavery and exploitation we put them through." He looked back to the paper. "It even praises Caelius's education policy, saying that openness in the wizard community was a good thing. I urge all of us to get a copy when we leave tonight, and read it."

In the end only ten minutes were given over to the Ministers' roles in the overseeing of the safe departure and arrival of the Hedgewards Express. A high concentration of members of the cabinet and aurors outside King's Cross, on the platform and three, with three reciprocators, circulating on the train appeared to have neutralised any serious protests that might have occurred. Similarly Jane Jones at the Hedgewards end with Dulcie Dainty and Hervert Herbert had made their presence discreetly known. James Potter had, with Peaceable Furnace, volunteered for the Black Lake ride with Lucius Malfoy and Bertie Griffin overseeing the thestral procession from the station to the castle.

"Mick counted in the students through the Dungeon entrance, as did Dave at the entrance to the Main Hall. All accounted for, all safe," concluded Caelius as the last of the reciprocators shared their reports with the rest. The quill, which took the minutes, shook itself as if to dislodge ink, before underlining the first section on the agenda.

"Does anyone else have anything to add?" They shook their heads, all except James, who declared, "I'm starving. Are we all staying for dinner?" Lily gave him a Look; James gave her one back, which said wordlessly, "I was only joking!"

"Right," said Caelius, "moving on. Before we come onto the duty rota for the weekend, to include Hedgewards and the surrounding area; Hogsmeade and the railway station – "

" – we volunteer for that," said Arthur quickly, nudging Kingsley, who nodded.

" – I wish to come to the Any Other Business section. Does anyone have anything to discuss here?" No-one answered. A few, who worked at the Ministry, suspected what Caelius was about to say but none shared it.

"I wish to confirm that, of her own volition, Cecilia Lupin has agreed to continue her duty at the Durmstrang Institute for the foreseeable future." An intake of breath, a muttering, growing, met Caelius's news, although to those who had suspected looks of anticipation changing to ones of certainty.

"Over her son? And Remus?" Lily's voice, one of alarm and indignation rose over the rest. "Sam spent most of the summer consoling Septimus; he was _so _glad that his mother had returned. Has she _no_ feelings?" Nymphadora Tonks gave Mrs Potter a sideways look, but said nothing.

"I couldn't possibly comment," replied Caelius. "Suffice to say her work has been, and will continue to be, of vital importance to us."

The meeting soon ended and a usual social atmosphere overtook one of formality; the rota would begin in a few hours and those included often felt it unnecessary to return home when they would return to Grimmauld Place within an hour. Caelius smiled weakly as he watched the wizard-non-wizard diplomats before swiftly departing to the third of his many engagements that evening. Committed to their cause, their voluntary cause, one which was steeped in precedent and moral duty, he looked at the collection of wizards, some of whom tonight, and most of them by the weekend, would be involved in some sort of policing of the laws of the land in order to smooth over relations between the two cultures.

He was sometimes awed at their commitment, for who would step into their shoes should he have to advertise? Not his words, those of Aberforth Dumbledore; he always had a way with words. Would they do it knowing what they would face? Probably. He needn't tell them; it was predictable. Conjurists, those suspected of taking their orders from the two most powerful European wizards, would wait a little while before launching an attack. Tonight, and over the next few days trouble would come from those neo-conjurists jumping on the superficial bandwagon, trouble-causers drunk on butterbeer and indignation. He would be there with them. And the test for truly comprehensive education in Britain would begin, and there was no going back.

Caelius would think back to that evening at his time at the ministry and with the reciprocators, many times in the months to come. Nothing could have changed the outcome in both arenas. This was the turning point. Whatever was to come it started here, with the students, both wizard and non-, attending Hedgewards together. Whatever was to come, Caelius knew, it was the start, the germ, the seed of something.

Nevertheless, Caelius was almost entirely wrong.

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Severus Snape stood in his office at the highest point in the castle. Through the window the lanterns from the boats ferrying little first year students bobbed on the Black Lake. The wind was up; even for the first day of September the weather here was on the turn and the choppy waters caused the lights to dip and bow.

Was it really nearly forty years since he crossed the river, in a boat that he was convinced would sink and land in a wharf in the dungeon of the castle? He remembered, as clear as day, the prefect on duty, explaining to them as they mounted the stairs that it was tradition for all first years to begin their journey at the bottom of Hedgewards. "For you may end your days as Headmaster or Headmistress, at the top of the school; you'll have risen through the whole building."

How true that was for him; and how unlikely. How unlikely was it for a boy, unpopular and keenly specialist in potions, with a brilliance which caused him to be liked even less, to have become the Head of the school? How strange for him to be standing there, presiding over the controversial admission of non-wizards? To be joint head of the Reciprocator movement, to be the person who would, in less than an hours' time, to address these non-magical children. To be the overseer of such change. It was hardly on the cards.

He turned, and crossed over to his desk. The pile of paper, mainly of Ministry origin, which had occupied his desk in a process of dynamic equilibrium where, once one letter or edict had been addressed another was added. Had he addressed them all, though, in enough detail to allow these children to be well educated in his care? Would they get the experience that they, their parents and the Ministry craved? Yes, they couldn't do magic. But they could learn. How better to cement wizard-non-wizard relations by pushing the reciprocator angle from the non-wizard perspective.

All passwords now obeyed non-wizards; books written especially for those with no magical ability had been published and recommended to the students by means of their welcome owl. The teachers had been trained and their subjects had been developed, widened and enriched. Even the sleeping arrangements, potentially out of reach for non-wizards in that they needed to access the common rooms via magical negotiations with animals, spells and paintings, had been solved with key words, latches and stern words. These and the fifty-seven other amendments recommended to him by Lily Potter via the reciprocators, were carried out in accordance with the prescribed, ultimately Ministerial, advice. They were as prepared as they could be without the students themselves being there.

The fire crackled. He wondered of Caelius would actually attend the meeting he had called. He hadn't, after all, attended any meetings with the wizard with his professional contemporary. He looked at the carriage-clock on his desk. Forty minutes before he carried out the role of leader of the school for the third time. Thirty minutes before Minerva McGonagall (even though she had been married to the Minister for Education for over fifty years she had always used her witch name) rapped on the door to collect the Sorting Hat. It was probably because Caelius would have to explain to him his reasons for again disposing

of Cecilia Lupin.

The fire crackled again, which drew his attention to it. Then a message crackled through. It was an apparition request. Caelius Lupin wished Severus Snape to admit him immediately to his office.

"Appareo." The headmaster closed his eyes and, holding his wand before him, point up, rotated it in a circle.

"My thanks, Snape," said Caelius as he stood before Severus. "I did not get back to you immediately as I was required to co-ordinate the aurors and reciprocators on the students' journey. They are arriving presently."

"I believe things may have been a lot easier on everyone's part, Snape, had you been more actively involved in today's proceedings. Nothing would have gone wrong had you been, for example, met the train at Hogsmeade."

"You work hard, Caelius, too hard," replied Snape. "I do worry on occasions, for your health. What do you have to share with me? In the capacity of our joint role? That is why you've accepted my invitation, is it not?" Circulating round the desk, their mutual dislike was released between them. Caelius bristled, though it was near to the full moon. That he was in the presence of a man who had developed the medicine that assisted him. Snape looked back to him, fussing Breen, Tabitha Penwright owl; he'd promise to look after him despite not caring much for magical creatures.

"Indeed." Caelius made his own path around the room. "A pressing matter, one which has preyed on my mind a little. Just over a month ago my office was the target of a break in." He circled past Severus's pensieve and he waved his hand close to it, turning it on and off. "Nothing was taken." Severus looked up sharply, but said nothing. Caelius stepped back, putting out of his mind the book Cecilia had got for him, the meeting with the elf, with the standards check he had yet to tell Snape that the school would be subject to in the very near future.

"On your part, Snape? What have you to share with me?" Their conversation, though staid, always took such a path. Clearly there was an advantage of the Head of the Reciprocators being the Headmaster of Hedgewards. Clearly Aberforth had his own reasons for declaring them both in his stead.

"No." Snape walked towards the window again. Fewer lights now. Below them the boats were mooring and eleven-year-olds and older non-wizards who had taken the aquatic journey would be walking on the dungeon's wharf and making their way up to the Great Hall. Septimus Lupin would be with them. Thirty minutes. Twenty for the Sorting Hat to be summoned for a good talking to from Minerva.

"Although not within your sphere of responsibility I do believe you should know that Hedgewards has been threatened by a small, but vocal, conjurist coven." Snape turned back.

"And similarly with the potion for Remus. You are his family, apart from Cecilia and Septimus, of course," added Snape, his eyes resting firmly on Caelius.

"What about a potion? Do you have a cure?" A look which Severus had rarely seen on Caelius's face passed over it now. Concern. He had seen it recently though, when, in his capacity of Septimus's Uncle Kay he had wondered in alarm at where the boy could be.

"I'm working on a solution," Severus replied. "It's never been tried before or, if it has, it not been successful to my knowledge. I have to admit it is one of the most complicated problems I've ever faced."

"You can't do it." Again, a statement. Though the impassive Severus Snape rarely showed his emotions when it came to work of a professional nature statements of intent rather than a question it the Headmaster showed his ire. He closed his eyes longer than a blink and counted, before looking at Caelius. And Caelius Lupin knew the irritation his manner caused him.

"That is not what I meant," he said, in a deliberately steady manner. "What I was not careful enough to convey was that because of the scarcity of some of the ingredients it was complicated. Some plants I need grow in remote parts of the world under rare climatic conditions…blue moon weed; this is available according to its name. Other ingredients are vital in other medicines and there is a hierarchy in medicinal manufacture. That said, no reason I can't obtain small quantities for research purposes. What I need is time."

"Time? Haven't you had enough time? Remus has been bitten over a month!"

"I have recommended a manner in which his present condition can be preserved, rather than deteriorate. But again I must remind you Caelius, science, and magical research can only find out what it can find at any point." He turned from Caelius's accusing glare. "They are independent of want; we are the mere guides, the mere handlers of both science and magic, rather than their master. Which is why Cecilia Lupin was so valuable. Her insight was without measure." When Caelius said nothing

"Her research is valuable? All research in my opinion is dangerous." And yet so much of what we live with, what we live for comes from so-called dangerous research. Even the thoughts and musings of a non-wizard alluded to that in her amateurish books. Science _was _magic. If you looked at it like that it was the non-wizards who were rare.

"Yet you sanction it. Haven't we always lived on the curing edge research? Hasn't it always, however controversial?" Snape continued, his walk taking him past the pictures of his predecessors. Aberforth winked at him and gave Severus Snape the thumbs up. "What abut Joseph Black, trying to communicate and open channels between wizards and non-wizards? If we dismiss it, are we missing something important? The approach is of no concern to me, it is outcome.

For lycanthropy, as in your case, we need to consider both science and magic, DNA _and _Auld Magic. When practitioners of Auld Magic bind an image with hair a bit of that witch or wizard is controlled. Obviously they do not know the science or why magic worked. But it did. Science is just magic with a reason and a geek.

"And that is all there was between you and my sister-in-law?"

"Her work is accurate," replied Snape, ignoring the barb which alluded to rumour. She has unique insight; many of the recent developments have been hastened by her input. It is just a pity you did not allow me to break the news to Cecilia myself before taking her to Durmstrang. She may have been more willing to accept it."

"I am the designated Ministry representative where she is concerned, Snape. Cecilia is my professional responsibility. And, after months of ignoring her letters you were present at Durmstrang yourself on 30th June. The same day that Remus visited." Another statement. Snape forced himself not to react.

"I was concerned about her wellbeing. Remus was leaving. And had I not it may have been many months before I could give you this." Those notes, those vain scribblings about lycanthropy and silver nitrate. How foolish to pursue an intellectual cause that was entirely irrelevant in this world. But the process had been valuable. "Had I been at the station this afternoon you might have had it tomorrow, or later, for my students, as you must appreciate, take my priority." From his cloak he took out a vial, holding it out away from his body. "I have done my best." He proffered it to Caelius, who did not move. "Try it. Make sure Remus's tongue is well coated. Sirius too. It's what I can do in the time frame available They need something to stabilise them long term before their minds recover from the shock.

"At least you may give my brother's plight full consideration now that you are not contemplating any of Cecilia's other ill-conceived research." Caelius's hand closed around the vial and he took it, pocketing it immediately.

"Indeed not." He reached into his robe and pulled out another vial. This one was instantly recognisable and Severus handed it to Caelius. "I have improved this also. It should necessitate you imbibing far less, causing you fewer side effects and it should taste better too."

"I could have done with this in February."

"I was assisting Tabitha, as you recommended. Before she went behind the veil."

"You don't seem overly concerned about Tabitha's wellbeing."

"She is Tabitha. She does what she needs to do to be her." Snape smiled, thinking of his, for want of a better word, girlfriend. "To see boundaries as things that society dictates, that, you must agree, is evidence enough of unique insight." Snaoe glanced at the door. Fifteen minutes and in five minutes the Sorting Hat would be required. He walked to the shelf on which it sat, its cone moving in and out as though it were breathing.

"Perhaps you would like to stay for the Sorting? Septimus might be pleased to see you." Caelius watched as Severus scooped the sleeping hat into his arms from the high shelf. It snorted in its sleep but continued to breathe silently and heavily. "A part of me, I have to admit Caelius, was surprised to see your nephew. I had half-expected a floo from you explaining that his mother had begged him to stay." Caelius fixed him with a stare. "Perhaps if he had asked her to work at Hedgewards? I may have had an insight into non-wizard teaching again, considering we have non-wizards on our roll now. Still, Edgeford isn't a million miles away, and there's always Halloween if Septimus so chooses to spend the holiday at home. She will be able to support Remus too."

"She is at Durmstrang, Snape." As well you know, thought Caelius. Severus looked at him. He knew that he knew too. "Her role as a spy for us is too valuable."

"Then you should stay for the feast. Septimus should know that his mother has gone." A pause, just momentarily too long and Severus pictured in her mind the woman sitting there, crying."

"You made her choose. Perhaps one day you will reflect on your cruelty," he replied to Caelius's unspoken reply. "She's only a non-wizard; she wanted a normal life."

"It was her decision to return. How best to know what Dumbledore and Grindelwald are planning if not to be at the one place where they have the most influence? Besides it may be of interest to you the imminent European legislation regarding research."

"About which you disagree due to its dangers."

"Indeed. As you know the professors of Durmstrang are required to pursue academic research. It is their research, the cutting edge of extreme magical doctrine that holds the most insight. What are they doing? Who is funding them?"

"I am sure Cecilia will discover this, if she hasn't already," Severus added. "And you were careful enough to ensure that she was sufficiently ashamed of what she was researching herself so as to blend in well." He moved towards the door with the still-sleeping Hat.

"You must know that, despite the changes required for the non-wizards the underlying framework of the education here is Auld Magic; despite integration it cannot be suppressed in a magical educational establishment." Seven minutes. Two minutes and the sleeping Hat would be handed to his deputy.

"We are an inclusive establishment now, headmaster."

"And, when the edict arrives from the European President our professors will begin individual research that incorporates the elimination of Auld Magic from their subjects whilst retaining the essence of their vocation." He took a few more steps towards the door before turning.

"I thank you Caelius for responding to my message. And now, if you are not stopping – " the Minister shook his head, " – I must prepare. Teachers to welcome, students to sort." With his unoccupied hand Severus gestured towards the fireplace. Caelius moved towards the fireplace and stood in its vicinity. The headmaster withdrew his wand with a flourish.

"Thank you, Snape, for the potions."

"Don't mention it." Really. Don't mention it. He circled his wand.

"Disapparato." The green glow that surrounded Caelius Lupin diminished, taking him with it. He looked up at the portraits.

"You were very restrained Severus, even if I do say so myself."

"Thank you, Aberforth." One minute until his door was ceremonially knocked, loudly, and the words spoken requesting the Sorting Hat. He moved over to the place from where Caelius had disappeared.

Cecilia. Poor woman. Stupid, naïve….

He dropped to his knees before the fireplace. …useful. He waved his wand again and replayed the messages he had received from her. She had begged to help Remus promising him anything she had to give him; she had begged him to take care of her son. And, without realising it, by using non-wizard floo powder (easily erased from the fireplace of origin and therefore illegal) she had undermined her captor. How much Norwegian did Severus know, she'd asked and went on to inform him of the location of the second, identical, copy of the book that she had given to Caelius.

A knock drew Severus to his feet. With a hard glance at the upper desk drawer of his desk the Headmaster of Hedgewards School of Witchcraft, Wizardry and Non-wizard Studies made his way to the door.

.

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	32. The Sorting Hat

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The dungeon wharf was dark, lit only with burning torches. As the little boats that carried the students moored they stepped out carefully and were ushered up the steps by both prefects, a woman from the Ministry, her with purple hat brim trim illuminating in the torch behind her.

"Come on, quickly students, please." Septimus stepped out onto the narrow stone stairs, uneven under his feet and, with Julian in front, climbed the steps, holding onto the iron railing to stop him falling into the water below, before collecting with the rest of the students before Sam Potter. He and Crystallia were organising them into groups, collecting them together, supervising.

"It's very dark," said Julian in a hushed voice. "I wonder how long we're going to be here?" Septimus didn't answer. This was a place in Hedgewards that he hadn't visited when he'd explored the castle and he wondered where they would be going next. Below them, in one of the very first moored boats Sam' father James stood, ushering the students upwards, encouraging the boats to moor close to the wharf (the boats sailed themselves and were temperamental, and Severus watched as he gave another magical minister a high five.

"I'm glad we didn't eat too many sweets," Julian added, lining up in Sam's line as he was organising them. "I'm starving."

"Me to," nodded Septimus, still looking down. He watched the older wizard follow the last of the students, a Jason Crudglington, who had spoken loudly to those who were listening about his reasons, at age sixteen and as a non-wizard, for attending a magical school. It turned out this tall, blnde-haired boy, had a father who was an engineer. He'd spoken about bridges, sailing ships and ttrains making nations great and that Mr. Crudglington had worked on setting up Hedgewards express. Jason, the cousin of Gordie Springs, the timid boy who had borne the wrath of Fraser Blewitt over Ariella Blewitt's wand and who was loitering fearfully behind Jason, wanted to learn about wizard ways in order to incorporate it into his future business of supplying wizards with non-wizard appliances, artefacts and goods.

The older wizard stood at the very back of the group, his hat with ministerial stripe in his hand, his arms folded and giving the impression that he was listening to what Sam was saying about where they would go and what they would do once they left the dungeon, tapping his foot on the cold stone floor. He caught Septimus's eye and winked, giving him a thumbs up.

It hadn't taken long for them to depart the train, at the rural platform that was Hogsmeade station and the first years and older non-wizard students had been ushered to the lakeside and boarded boats in the twilight. Each boat seated eight, a light suspended above hoisted on a mast on a rope. The oars dipping into the water, pushing off into the fading light on their own. Soon the lake was filled with little bobbing lights and the train of boats headed towards the castle, slowly but surely.

In the boat behind, as now, adjacent, was Rufus Lestrange. He still seemed to be in world of his own, nearly tripping up the stairs and plunging into the water as he clombed clumsily up them. Had James Potter not helped him he would have been in. Rufus smiled at Septimus, nodding his head to the still non-existent beat. Ahead of them, standing right in front of Sam, was Darren Black, looking up, taking all the prefect was saying.

"I wonder what mum and dad are doing now; they'll never believe what's happened so far!" Julian turned to Septimus, his eyes sparkling in the darkness as the rest of the students gathered closer together into two groups. He patted Septimus on the shoulder. "Oh! Sorry, Sep," he added.

"Sorry for what?"

"Sorry that your dad's as good as dead and death and your mum's a nutter." The sotto voce interjection wove its way around them and Septimus's head shot up. No-one seemed to be the obvious perpetrator.

"Sorry that, well, your parents aren't here," he added lamely.

"Come on now, said Sam Potter, "in lines please." The students shuffled into lines in front of their nearest prefect.

"So, now we're getting Sorted," said Julian as they walked out of the dungeon, their line, headed by Crystallia Andersson, made their way first up three flights of wide stairs.

"I reckon," said Septimus, looking up at the now contrastingly brightly lit antechamber, the large entrance which preceded the entrance of the Great Hall. He remembered being here a fortnight ago, the castle undressed as changes were being made, drapes of cloths to catch masonry; upside down hunkypunks complaining of their condition and protesting about their plight as Peeves and Just About Headless Nick tormented them. "It wasn't dark when I came. It's…tidier." Their group stopped, gathered round the entrance as Sam Potter's line joined them.

"I forgot you've been before."

"Uncle Kay brought me. He had business with Professor Snape."

"Stop pushing, children," said Sam, turning to his group. "Now, make your line again."

"And my group," echoed Crystallia. Julian and Septimus shuffled back in line as the outer doors of the Great Hall opened. The younger wizards stared as a witch, tall and thin, glided over the flagstones and stood before it.

"You are welcome!" Her voice rang clear and true and she stood aside as the rest of the students filed in. Septimus craned his neck to see outside as the very oldest students trooped through, in four lines, the students' clothes embellished with the house colours and sigils. Sam had explained the tradition: in the Great Hall the teachers would already be seated, all except the Headmaster. The witch who had opened the door and invited in the rest of the students: seventh first, then sixth and so on, entering numerically until it got to the Unsorted first years, was the school's deputy head, Minerva McGonagall.

The first years, with the prefects, watched as the other students entered and whispering began: which houses would they be in? Which brothers and sisters had they seen? What would the food be like?

"We're going next, Sep," said Julian. "What house do you think you'll be in? What house do you think I'll be in?" Septimus looked at his friend. Genuine concern crossed his usual jovial features.

"Dad was in Gryffindor," said Septimus, "but it doesn't mean I will be. Which one would you like to be in?"

"The one with the best masonry. I read that Hufflepuff's common room was built of limestone – just think of the fossils there might be. But then of course the obsidian of Slytherin, well – I may well just have to visit it even if I'm not there. It's said to have come from just one volcano in Iceland, and there's no other examples anywhere in the world..."

Their lines started to move and Septimus followed Julian into the hall, several other wizards behind him. He tried not to look too hard at the wizards around him but stared forward, looking at the teachers. No sign of Professor Snape yet he thought as the silent room, with its candle sky and floating house ghosts above watched the newest students walk in.

"Now, before we commence our feast," said Professor McGonagall, her voice piercing over the applause of their promenade to the front of the hall, "the tradition of our Sorting will begin." More applause, accompanied by cheers, waves, hoots and whistles. She quelled the majority of this by holding her hands horizontally and pressing down in mid air several times. Septimus looked at Julian, who was equally astonished.

"They're still cheering," said Julian, amazed.

"I know. That's magic for you." Once the students realised they had had the wizard equivalent of the volume button pressed they settled once more and Septimus noticed that, on the chair that he thought a robe had been draped, it was in fact a hat, its point drooping low and its brim crinkled.

"Is it snoring?" asked Julian. Septimus stared harder.

"Looks like it could be."

The room had returned to silence again as Professor McGonagall tapped her wand on the back of the chair. Around them whispers of excitement arose again.

"I wonder which one I'll be in," said Julian again. "I wonder…"

"Uncle Kay was in Ravenclaw," said Septimus as he looked between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables. "It doesn't necessarily run in families, though."

"Is it too much to hope that I'll be with my friend," Julian said aloud and for the first time Septimus wondered whether, had he himself not attended Hedgewards whether Julian Scott would be standing there, as one of the first non-wizard students. Before Septimus could think of anything to say to him, comforting or otherwise, Professor McGonagall was staring at the list and reading from it.

"Scarletta Addams," she intoned. A nervous-looking girl right in front of her stepped forward, her long black hair reaching to her waist even though it was in a ponytail. "Step forward," said Professor McGonagall, sidestepping to the chair and, with one swift movement, shook the hat

"Do you mind?" it said crossly, "I was trying to have a kip!" Its eyes looked to the left and it frowned. "You're not going to read me any more of your family poetry, are you, McGonagall? It's bloody awful!"

The whole hall roared at the hat's impudence in answering back. Professor McGonagall's face was stony as she shook the hat again. 

"It's the Feast," she replied sternly. "And I call upon you to do your duty."

"Oh, all right then," said the hat. "Put me on, then," it added. To the now-silent hall Scarletta Addams sat down underneath it. A few moments later, nothing happened. Minerva McGonagall continued to hold the hat above the girl's head for a few more minutes before leaning down to Miss Addams and whispering, "why don't you go back to your group, dear? Sometimes it takes a while to make it's mind up." When Scarletta gave a deep inward sigh Professor McGonagall put her hand on her shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. "Never mind, my dear. It's nothing to worry about."

As Scarletta returned, as red-faced as her name, to their group Septimus watched as McGonagall picked up her head, and read, "Ariella Blewitt." The girl whose brother had reprimanded the other boy for borrowing her wand, small and mouse-like, stepped forward, sitting down, as Scarletta had done under the hat.

"What is wrong with you?" scolded Professor McGonagall when, like Scarletta, Ariella had to return Unsorted, this time to Sam's group. "Why won't you _Sort _the _students_?" The Hat said nothing, just hung from the witch's left hand limply, its features characterless, no cheeky remark or reply.

Three more students tried, and failed, to be Sorted into their houses before Professor McGonagall put the hat back onto the chair. With a swish of her bottle-green cloak she crossed to the teacher's table, raised up at the back of the hall. As yet, Professor Snape was not there and she leaned across to Professor Flitwick who got up and proceeded stage right and out of the door. Around them, though unspoken, the atmosphere had changed and he saw Julian's face. The unspoken words from the watching students behind was, "non-wizard."

Septimus turned back to the teachers and watched as Professor McGonagall had a brief conversation with the wizard who they'd seen escorting the students from the dungeons from the boats, who had his feet on the table three places along, who had winked and given Septimus the thumbs up. He thought he heard the words, "…refuses…", "…try non-wizard names?", "Black…? Avery…? Jones…? Sisher…?" and, "…thought this would happen…" but before their conversation could continue Professor Snape took his place before the students.

He was as Septimus remembered him, tall, hook-nosed, long dark hair. The headmaster scanned the faces of the students before him momentarily before turning to both Professor McGongall and the Ministry wizard, speaking a few words in a low tone before turning back to the students.

"It is my unfortunate duty to tell you," began Professor Snape, "that our Sorting Hat is, well, quite out of sorts." He took a step towards the new students and scanned them with his eye briefly. "Our school's tradition goes back as far as the day our humble forebears saw fit to establish a wizarding school. On that day they gave their names to our four houses: Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, Slytherin and Hufflepuff. They did not have a Sorting Hat with which to discern the most appropriate students for their houses and so, by way of tradition, older than that of our hat, we will House our students in their manner. Heads of House: forward."

From the teachers' tables Filius Flitwick, Pomona Sprout and Terbett Herbert rose, circled the table and stood equidistant one another along with Minerva McGonagall. Septimus looked at all four of the teachers. How was the sorting going to take place?

"Each of the teachers before you, as you will know, are the respective heads of house for Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin and Gryffindor. The Sorting will now take place." Professor Snape stepped forward and looked again at the students. In a lower voice he called them closer, the prefects standing where they were as they huddled closer and he spoke in a voice that only they could hear.

"Students," he said, his voice returning to its normal amplitude. "Be Sorted." Septimus smiled to himself. Of course. That was the obvious way to be Sorted. The Hat, as Sam had explained, just re-interpreted your thoughts and spoke what you really wanted anyway. How different was that to making your own mind up? He looked between the four professors, who were looking dead ahead at the doors to the Great Hall, their eyes fixed. Around them the students milled. Of course. And he would take a moment, just a moment, to think about which house he wanted to join.

A few moments later and he stood behind Professor McGonagall. The students, having Sorted themselves, soon came to a standstill by the Heads of their chosen houses too. Septimus was glad to see that Julian was already there. He was glad that his friend had not chosen Gryffindor just because he had. He looked around. Few students who stood by him he recognised; Rufus Lestrange was there, though Septimus had noticed he had changed lines at least eight times during the Sorting. Darren Black was there too, looking out to the sea of faces before them. In the Ravenclaw line, which Septimus had seriously considered joining, was Ariella Blewitt. He looked over to the Ravenclaw table and noticed that her brother was sitting near the front. Also in Ravenclaw was Scarletta Adams and he wondered what had actually gone wrong with the Sorting Hat – was it having an off-day, or was it actually protesting, as the hushed brief whispers that had circulated the hall half an hour before, to the admission of non-wizards?

Once the milling had stopped and the students had taken up their places in behind the houses they had chosen the Professors, with their groups of students, stepped down the two steps to the House tables, leading their new students to their tables. They were warmly welcomed, patted on the back, hands shaken, others squeezing up to make room for them. Septimus squeezed in beside two older boys, who high-fived one another as they split apart to make room. An older redheaded girl across from them grinned widely too at the newcomers and Julian stepped over the bench beside him. Septimus smiled at his friend. He'd not replied to Julian's wish to be in the same house as him, but Septimus had wanted it just as much.

"A few notices before we get on with the business of dinner." Professor Snape tapped the Sorting Hat's chair with his wand, the incumbent occupant of which still sat lifeless on the seat, to quieten the room. He looked at the students, his eyes meeting with Septimus momentarily. Still as scary as he remembered too, he thought.

"Lessons are to begin on Tuesday rather than Monday – " a cheer erupted from the tables, " – in order for many things to be completed. Quidditch trials will begin tomorrow as will medicals for all new students, who will report to the hospital wing. Your Head Boys and Girls will show you where you need to go. On Monday your Head of House and your Head Boy and Girl will run through your timetables, changes to lessons and options for upper OWL and NEWT students. You will undertake a day of lessons including personal and economic wellbeing and careers, learning strategies and be introduced to new subjects. Your Heads of House will furnish you with personalised timetables for that day. For those students not involved in the day, examination years, for example, you will be expected to use your time to your advantage in lieu of interim examinations that will take place before, and not after Christmas." He looked around the room at the students again, his features taking on a grave expression.

"As you know, this year we have opened our doors not only to those of our magical community but to those from non-magical backgrounds. We live in a society where magical and non-magical people do business, live and work together. Our school now reflects this and it is long overdue. Remember, it is not only right to consider those who may be unlike ourselves, but an honour. You honour us, new students, as members of our school. And so, on behalf of all at Hedgewards I formally welcome all of our new students." He bowed his head, his eyes closed momentarily.

"Bravo!" From the teacher's table the Ministry wizard put down his feet from the table and stood up, clapping. Soon all of the teachers were clapping and, from the house tables, so were most of the students. Their headmaster looked pleased, as well as a little relived, Septimus thought.

"And so to our feast!" Professor Snape held out his hands, embracing the students before him. "Eat, drink, and enjoy!" He clapped his hands and, before them, food appeared.

A feast indeed. Bread and hot soup was the first to be magicked, followed by a hot dinner, followed by sticky toffee pudding. For Septimus, anyway. It seemed that all those around him were enjoying different meals to him, Julian included.

"Want to try some chicken salad?" he asked Septimus, who nodded and speared a piece from Julian's plate. "For a roastie," he added, taking one of Septimus's roast potatoes. He laughed. It was good to have his friend back again.

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It was Tuesday morning. Not that time meant much to Cecilia Lupin. At Durmstrang time meant little; classes were held whenever the teacher made time, were always packed (for some of the teachers held classes so rarely, such was their commitment to their research that they'd be so self-absorbed) and were advertised in a rolling, ticker-tape fashion in the castle's main reception. There were always huddles of students milling around, for the information would change without warning and for some teachers' classes several students had devised a rota system to watch the announcements for they could not graduate unless they had undertaken the required number of classes of a variety of themes and subjects.

This morning had been the first that Cecilia had recognised that she had slept. The cool cotton sheets on her face were stiff with minerals, her dried tears, shed frequently and in copious quantities. Her room was as she had left it; the house elves would have been the ones to change the sheets, clean and tidy, and there had been a fresh-laid fire in the grate with just a smidgeon of fuel that might last ten minutes if she were desperately cold.

Her head ached. She lifted it. The daylight creeping in under the door that she could see indicated that it was, at least, daytime and she wondered if Ragnhild would try to talk to her, as she had done each day since Cecilia had arrived back at the foot of the steps of the castle and had had to climb the steps that she had descended over a month ago, back up to the school atop.

Caelius had said nothing. He had disapparated her from the station where she stood, watching the train rush into the distance to the rocky shore that surrounded Durmstrang. He hadn't even the decency to say anything to her, merely waved his wand and disapparated almost immediately after they'd arrived.

She'd found her belongings, clothes and shoes, books and her beloved photo of Septimus and Remus still in the place where she had left them. No-one checked up on teachers here; everyone accepted that they did their own thing.

Cecilia had considered again, in the half-light with her head as achy as if she had been drinking the night before, at the situation. She could run again, run to Scotland this time, beg Severus to help her; she could run to the Midlands, back to Edgeford and her family. Neither of these would help Septimus, for she had told him – _been forced to tell him_, she added to herself, _no more defending Caelius_ – that she had gone back here. It would do him no good, ultimately, if she were to disappear again. She could stay, and play the game.

What she would not do, Cecilia vowed to herself, was give in to the idea that she was here as punishment, to do his will as atonement for breaking the law. Caelius wanted her to think like that and, at her lowest, the night before, when all the darkness seemed to crowd in on her, Cecilia steeled herself and told the night that she would play his game, but not necessarily stick to his rules. She had set the precedent, and if one person should have been privy to the information she had brought from this place, someone with whom Cecilia knew that Caelius would not share it with, that person was Severus Snape. At least for the sake of the fact that Septimus was now in his care.

Her hatred of Caelius Lupin began to fester again. How much she loathed the part of herself that could not let go of her soul-wrenching anger at her brother-in-law. If he was before her now she would have no hesitation in tearing at his face with her nails, attacking him, hurting him as he'd hurt her. Except she wouldn't, of course. She wouldn't attack him for the sake of her hateful feelings. And that left her wondering, why had she bothered copying out the book, the Art of the Wize, with its double circle embossed on the cover, the product of a Durmstrang teacher-wizard's research? She could easily have not bothered and kept it from Caelius. She had done it because some things were beyond spite and revenge. Because she knew it needed to be shared.

Cecilia sat up, wiping at her tear-stained face. Was it out of her system? She hoped so. She hoped that she might be able to live here again, somehow, get through the days without too many a care and worry. At least she didn't have her notebooks any more, burned as they had been in that hearth over there.

There was Remus, too. Here, they had pledged themselves to each other, here in her room at Durmstrang. What would she, _could _she be doing there, except for brooding? She wiped the unbidden tears from her eyes. No. She hadn't got over the shock of it yet. Caelius may even be true to his word of telling her if there was any change at all.

Getting to her feet Cecilia made her way to the small bathroom that was through a door on the opposite side of the room. Dark granite tiles, uneven and textured, decorated the bathroom, unlike the bathroom she remembered at Hogwarts with the sunken bath. That had been pale stone, marble-like. Here there was no bath, only a shower which turned cold within two minutes to prevent one languishing in the luxury of its heat. She had got her ablutions, including washing her hair, down to a fine art and was able to step out one minute and nineteen seconds later washed and refreshed before being soaked with ice cold water.

Ragnhild met her, or at least had seen her ascend the only flight of steps that led to the shore and she'd followed her to her room, looked at her face, wrought with distress, fear, worry, anguish, and told her she would come back later. Cecilia wondered if she should try to find her, especially seeing as she had been included on this year's timetable. She should at least ask her about how to advertise a class in the reception-area.

How different was the school to Hedgewards. She knew she wouldn't be missed here, which was at least one comfort. At Hedgewards the students were actively involved with their lessons, making potions and divinations, casting spells, both offensive and defensive; tending plants, playing Quidditch. The students at Durmstrang sat there, in their tiered classroom seats, made notes and did their own prep.; they were self-determined, submitting their work according to their own deadlines, those failing to do so to the high standards expected knew that their time would be wasted when they got to the age of seventeen and had not graduated, their full complement of subjects having not been completed, a shameful situation which every student feared. Apart from between lessons, as they scuttled about from one room to another Cecilia barely saw the students themselves, their heads bent in supplication as their teachers lectured, piles of scrolls appearing on teachers' desks as assignments were completed.

And now she had a cause, something she believed in, and for once she was on Caelius's side, or at least, not against a tiny part of his overall philosophy. There were people, people here, wizards and witches, who wanted to separate science from magic, to hold magic exalted. They were wishing for a time, like in the Old Place, where magic was cut off from science, and from non-magic people. But you only had to look at the evidence to see that everyone was on a spectrum, that there was no clear dividing line. Any separation would be down to people's interpretation and you only had to look back to where she had come from to see that integration, tolerance, togetherness, were infinitely better than magic being kept secret.

But people were going to do it anyway, or had at least planned to and there, in "The Art of the Wize", Cecilia suspected, was their licence to do so, ironically endorsed by science. The book contained potentially damaging stuff. If it could be proven it would challenge both wizards' and non-wizards' preconceptions about one another, and that was before this conjurist nonsense was taken into account. Cecilia sighed. The use, or rather misuse of scientific method to endorse aflawed ideology…where had that happened before?

A knock on the door made Cecilia look up from the act of getting dressed. It would be her; no-one else here had ever bothered, Ragnhild Andersson, the statuesque witch with ankle-length white-blonde hair with whom she had regularly chatted before she had left Durmstrang.

She pulled on her jersey and reached for her comb, dragging it through her short locks.

"Just a minute," she said, slipping on a pair of shoes. "I'll be right there."

Cecilia put her hand on the latch, pausing momentarily before pushing down on it. Let's get on with it.

"Cecilia!" The witch pulled her close and hugged her very briefly before looking at her with concern before speaking quietly. "May I come in?" Cecilia stood back and the witch stepped through. "You are returned, I am so glad to see. I looked for you, did you not get my message?" Cecilia shook her head.

"No. But thank you. How are you? You look tired."

"Working," sighed Rahnhild, "always working. Too hard, I dare say." Cecilia motioned to a chair that stood by the empty fireplace and she sat on the other.

"I don't have any refreshments," Cecilia added.

"Not to worry, I ate thirteen hours ago; it's not long till lunch."

And Cecilia began to tell her, well, for want of a better word, her friend, of her journey, and her return.

"For the sake of Septimus. And my work," she concluded, when the scant details had been shared. She did not tell Ragnhild about Caelius, or being forced to return, though she suspected the witch knew that she had few powers herself for Ragnhild had often helped her when she'd asked.

"And you saw the famous Severus Snape," Ragnhild added, nodding approvingly. "Crystallia seems to be flourishing; she's achieving all I could have hoped for – she visited me briefly here; it would not have suited her here – " Ragnhild partly covered her mouth with her hand as she spoke the words, as if not to be overheard, though she'd told Cecilia this before. She nodded.

"The wizard is a genius. All students are lucky to have him as their headmaster…the awards he's won; potions, defence, wandless magic, magical-related science…he's admired by so many, even wizards here…an expert in his field…world renowned…" she tailed off her description of Snape, as if reading from the blurb of a biography. "And to have non-wizards; this is just the best news. Children need to understand other children; I pity the ones here, always working, never being able to socialise." Ragnhild shook her head, the curls at the bottom of her hair moving a good twenty seconds later. "I feel so sorry for them."

"This is the benefit of science being used with magic in a positive way," Cecilia commented. "Science and magic used to complement one another. She paused, then looked astonished as Ragnhild answers the very question that her mind was forming but before her lips had a chance to take on the words.

"You may ask why I work here." She looked into the fireplace bereft of flame. "It doesn't reflect my beliefs as you can tell; but the simple fact is few places want a Narratoveritia…a truth teller. We are common in Iceland…where the Earth is tearing apart. There are a several narratoverita from my country; many volcanic-dwellers are magical and many Icelanders have my ability, to tell the truth to others, whether they want to hear it or not. You might have noticed. Cecilia nodded. So many times Raghnhild had told her things that were about to happen, often unpleasant things, like slipping in the bathroom and not having prepared well enough for a journey (that had been especially true; the slips she had written as she had crossed haphazardly across the north of England were still with her; she would pay her debts to these people). So she was a truth teller.

"It is a dangerous thing to be. I make enemies; people hold it against you personally. I have learned to be choosy with what I say and it breaks my heart when disaster is on the way and I know that I must not say, for my own sake." She sighed and looked at the flagstone floor. "I am accepted here; I can work here." Cecilia nodded sympathetically.

"People research here energy conservation, they research magical cures…we are the hothouse for magical development…" she looked sadly at Cecilia, "but the work that people do, it is for naught, for they damage themselves in the quest for academia. I know this, and yet I do it to myself." Cecilia felt a growing sympathy for the woman. Imagine knowing things, picking up on the surroundings a she supposed Ragnhild did and interpreting it. It did put her problems into perspective somewhat. As isolated and vulnerable as she felt at the moment she had a certain empathy for the witch, having been on the outside, so to speak, and was looking in for she had been there, telling the truth, or at least her version of it, on occasions, one of which had landed her in Durmstrang in the first place.

"I'm glad to be back, to see you," said Cecilia as Ragnhild got to her feet, her hair swishing behind her. "It's best to be free in a foreign place than to be a slave at home," she added, nodding to the door. "I choose this, and…"

"…work calls," said Cecilia. It wasn't a question. Ragnhild nodded her graceful head.

"Indeed. But Cecilia, you must remember this," she added suddenly, her eyes looking at her with sudden determination. "You don't have to put out the fire when it's burnt out already. Please remember that!" Cecilia nodded determinedly.

"I won't forget it," she replied. For a long time, she added to herself, as she stood in her room in the Durmstrang Institute, thinking about the words. I won't forget it for a long time.


	33. And So To Noneventfulness

88888888

"The Sorting Hat wouldn't sort!" James Potter sat before the Reciprocators, wizards and witches who were about to go out on surveillance. Following the arrival and settling of students at Hedgewards and a whole day's lessons successfully done the Reciprocators had gathered together at Grimmauld Place for their usual weekly meeting expecting an update from their leader. At the last moment James Potter, sipping a cup of tea and waiting for the wizards to assemble, received a floo from Caelius explaining that he would, regrettably, be unable to chair it himself and had owled James the details.

Lily was annoyed. "How on earth can he miss the single most important meeting of the reciprocators? What could he be doing that's more important?" But her ire at the situation, brought about through lethargy from her new work, that of old buildings and making them habitable by modern wizards and/or non-wizards, it didn't change the fact that the Head of the Reciprocators would not be there and, in his stead, James would have to fill in.

He had chaired the meeting well enough, receiving reports from those who had been on the ground as the Hedgewards Express had made its way across the country on Saturday. Arabella Figg reported that she had kept several students in line at Hogsmeade station and Benjamin Wergs told them that three students who might well have drowned in the Black Lake in their efforts at boarding one of the captainless boats. James too reported that the first years and new students had disembarked successfully and had come to the part when the Sorting Hat fell silent, refusing to acknowledge the students, far less Sort them into their houses.

"I've never heard the like!" exclaimed Bathsheba who, like the others, knew of the situation but had not yet had it confirmed. "The Hat didn't Sort! What has Caelius to say about this? And Severus?" James looked at his owl. No information had been provided other than what James already knew and had told them. The meeting's members looked on and Bathsheba continued, "it'd be good to have heard it from either of them, particularly with what we are doing tonight." Many nods, comments, and whispers echoed her sentiment. James closed his eyes momentarily, his mind thinking on to the rest of the agenda. He wasn't ready for this; he hadn't been prepared to chair the Reciprocator meeting that evening. His evening had involved him and Lily going on duty before clocking off and grabbing a few hours' sleep before work the next day. Chairing the meeting tonight required him to think and make decisions.

"It is Caelius's pleasure to announce that the first day of teaching at Hedgewards has been carried out successfully. All students, both wizards and non-, have had their lessons with only minor difficulties…" James read from his briefing notes, "…classroom location, organisation of students into teaching groups…nothing like the suspected disruption that was anticipated. No resistance to the subjects, no prejudice. All in all, a success."

"And what about the screening?" Madeye Moody growled his question before swigging from his hip flask. "What does our esteemed leader say about these? What are the outcomes?"

"Er," began James, scanning down. "It says that it was carried out…" he read to the end before reading through again. "And that the results would be released to the students at the end of the month. They are screening for diseases, both wizard and non-wizard in origin."

"A good thing," said Lily. "We don't know how magic's going to affect the non-wizards."

"I suspect there is more to this," interrupted Madeye. "Do you not think that the Ministry wish to uncover any half-breeds?"

"If Caelius were here we could ask him," replied James Potter. "However, we can only speculate. Anyway," he looks down, hoping no more important questions or comments came his way, "tonight we – " James broke off and looked in the direction of the crackle that indicated a wizard was apparating.

"Severus! How good to see you!" Molly Weasley immediately rounded one of the sofas and welcomed him warmly. "We were just hearing of the success of the school." Severus Snape half-closed his eyes as the Recprocators stared. He rarely attended meetings these days – many suspected a rift between him and Caelius. That he was here at all was a good sign, however.

"Indeed. It is the reason I am here." He walked over to a vacant seat on one of the sofas but did not sit down and looked at James. "I understand you're our chair?" James Potter nodded.

"Do you wish me to continue with the meeting?" Looking down the list of points he had been compelled to cover, James looked back at Severus.

"Perhaps you could cover the points from Hedgewards?" asked James. "I know there are several points some members might wish to ask you. I have one other issue to discuss."

"Indeed," replied Severus, taking the cup of steaming tea that Molly Weasley had given to him and finally sitting down next to Arthur. "As I am sure you were saying James, the beginning of the school year has been a success. We have had lessons for both wizards and non-wizards today, something which, had you put it to me this time last year I would have said would be impossible. And yet, though early days, the strata of students in the school and the shift in teaching and learning objectives have culminated in successful lessons, happy students and a positive school." He surveyed the Reciprocators, who were listening intently.

"All credit must be given to the staff who have met the challenge of integrating non-wizard learning into their subjects at short notice, although there have been one or two tests to our organisation. We have heeded much that you, Lily, and Tabitha too, of course, recommended to us via your report, James and I congratulate you on your dedication to the cause."

"Our wellbeing programme yesterday appeared to be a success also; the students undertook lessons identifying prejudice and how it made no difference about people's abilities or lack of them to what they could learn. Older students undertook academic programmes of study," Severus concluded, sipping his tea, before adding, "are there any questions?"

"What problems have there been with wizard prejudice to the non-wizards? What have you done about it?" Severus Snape glanced over to Sturgis Podmore, nodding in acknowledgement.

"We will carry out the school policy with regard to discrimination, which is that under no circumstances bigotry would be tolerated. There have been no reports, I am pleased to say, of this, other than a couple of isolated incidents. Sam, for example – " he looked at Lily and then at James, " – was adept at dealing with those that have occurred. An asset to the school," he added approvingly.

"It's a pity "positive" couldn't be used to describe what we'll face tonight," growled Mad Eye Moody. "I'll be sending some your way, James, there's no doubt, before it's over."

What about the Sorting Hat?" Bathsheba asked, changing the subject – she too knew the night would be difficult and she narrowed her eyes in Moody's direction, wishing he hadn't reminded her of what they would be having to do – again – that night as keepers of the peace.

"I've yet to get to the bottom of the Sorting Hat – it has been entirely uncommunicative. I've left it in the hands of both my predecessors and Minerva. Phineas Nigellus was giving it a good talking to as I left."

"Mick Mullen reported that the failsafe Sorting procedure had been a boon," commented James. "A good thing the students weren't left without their houses."

"But not to be Sorted! Bloody hell, Severus, I bet there were loads of cheesed off students. I know I would have been!" Anaxagoras Jones, a plump wizard, ruddy faced and bearded, banged his fist on the arm of the chair, a small puff of dust erupted from the fabric.

"What House did the Sorting Hat put you in, Nax?" asked Kingsley, turning to the older wizard.

"Gryffindor," he growled.

"And the house you would have chosen…?"

"Gryffindor! Brave, chivalrous, courageous…what other choice is there?" A silence fell, and Anaxagoras Jones, a descendent of one of the Reciprocator's pioneers, nodded and harrumphed.

"Was the method really the same one that founders chose?" Benjamin Wergs turned his attention back to Snape, unfolding his feet at the ankle before folding them over the other way.

"Oh yes," replied Lily. "When the founders were alive the students sorted themselves based on the qualities of the houses they most valued." She sighed. "If only I'd been there to see history in the making."

The room feel silent for a few moments. It would seem that Caelius's policy had paid off. The students were being educated, the staff were happy and there had been little if any conflict between them. It was a pity that the situation in towns and cities around the countries, where protests from conjurists, who had taken to the streets, though low level, had been boldly vocal in their opposition to the so-called equality policy had been enacted.

"Severus, what of the medical tests? None of the other students have been tested for diseases. Can you explain Caelius's thinking here?" It was Lily who had posed the question. Severus nodded in acknowledgement.

"Indeed. Caelius proposed the measure not two weeks ago. He was concerned for the health of the students in light of non-wizard students coming to Hedgewards, as a precaution to them. We cannot morally keep them at the school if we feel that there is anything which may pose a danger to them. Equally, we felt it was detrimental to the cause to isolate the non-wizards alone, hence the request for first year students."

"And what will happen to the records? What will the Ministry do with them? Excuse me for the questions, Severus, I was unaware, as a parent, that this was going on." Again, Severus nodded in acknowledgement.

"My thanks for your questions Lily, it is important to clarify these things. As I was saying, the only reason for students' screening was to discover if there was anything that that may prevent them from being fully involved in school life. The results of the tests will be kept on school file only and released to the students. Should any students be suffering from anything of concern they will be offered counselling and a letter sent home recommending they be removed from Hedgewards. We would not like the students to suffer for their education any more than they will have to." A snort of laughter came from Mad Eye, Sturgis and Arthur Weasley, while Kingsley Shacklebolt added a, "hear, hear," to Severus's comments.

"As to your question about notification, the parents and guardians of those involved were informed with their Hedgewards Letters. Sam is in the sixth year and as such is not subject to a medical examination." Severus got to his feet. "Any further questions?" James looked around the room.

"No, I don't think so, Severus," concluded the reluctant chair of the meeting. "So, back to the other business of the evening." He looked down his list. "Other agenda items…" he looked up. "Pensieves. There have been reports, and evidence, that the new types of pensieve are being used by Conjurists. The main organisers use "P-mail" to contact those in their coven, the time and date of assembly. A wizard we arrested yesterday told the auror Idris Llun that he had been messaged, told to meet in Newcastle and, with other conjurists, target the bridge. Clearly this makes our job more difficult as these wizards and witches can be called at any time, from anywhere and as such we do not have the capacity, like with the floo network, to monitor the messages in and out yet."

"Close down the shop!" declared Anaxagoras. "Unless they let the Ministry in. National security!" A rumble replies, some in agreement, some merely groaning at Nax's predictable response.

"We can't close it down. But at this moment Caelius is in talks with the managing director of Firebolt Pensieves. They've had the sense, at least, to take the wizards' addresses for all those sold." He looked at the sheet, then back up. "Nothing prevents the original owners from selling these on. We have the measure, temporary at least, but something, that we may confiscate any pensieves that we have until we can get someone from the Department of Mysteries to look into their magical programming and usage. Hopefully some sort of tracking device or code can be developed."

"If only we have Tabitha," sighed Lily, "she'd do it in a heartbeat.

"No she wouldn't," laughed Sturgis Podmore. "The time she would take on it would be seconds, to her at least, but we might get it by Christmas."

"But it would work, and do the job it needed," insisted Lily. "Tabs is nothing if not efficient."

"Have you heard from her of late, Severus?"

"No. She is still behind the veil."

"Then we must rely on Caelius to do his utmost. He is nothing if he is not dedicated to his work, Caelius Lupin," intoned Kingsley. "Now, if we are finished, shall we get the rotas organised?"

As a wizard, the got to their feet. Severus Snape looked at James's expression, one of reluctant custodianship. Both knew that this was not the last item on the agenda.

"As eager as we all are to be on our way with our duties tonight, there is just one more item, something that is all the more pressing considering its personal nature to us all." He had the room. Molly sat back down by her husband, on the arm of the chair. Bathsheba stopped mid-rise and Benjamin pulled her back down again onto the settee. Silent. Wide-eyed.

"Has anyone heard from, or seen from Henrietta recently?"

"She's in Europe, James," replied Lily. "She went there early July." A muttering of agreement reinforced Lily's point.

"Have you heard from her, Lily? Has anyone?" James looked around as his wife and several other Reciprocators shook their heads.

"And nor has Caelius. He went to visit the European Ministry yesterday in order to discuss national security. He had Owled Henrietta and asked for a meeting. When she didn't turn up he went to the address that the Parliament building in Strasbourg had for her. The place was deserted – he had to apparate in – and by the looks of things she hadn't been there for a long time." A rise in the volume of the chatter made James pause awkwardly. He knew the news of Henrietta's, well, disappearance, would provoke concerned discussion, and it had.

"How far has Caelius got with his investigation?" Tonks, from the very back of the room. "He's made it official, I assume?" James shook his head.

"Not as yet. I think, before he involves European aurors he wishes to investigate himself. But he urges anyone who has had any contact with Henrietta to speak to him. Any information might help."

"And now we can go?" asked Kingsley, once the chatter had died away. "I for one am keen to get on with it tonight."

As the meeting drew to a close Severus nodded to James. "Caelius will be grateful that you stepped in."

"What else could I do? He's not here, and we needed briefing. If you ask me he's taking on too much, Severus. He's sorted the school, he's got the Ministry to run, the conjurists to look after, and now Henrietta's got herself lost and – "

"You think that's what's happened?"

"You know what she's like. Flaky. She'll probably arrive here tomorrow as if nothing at all's the matter." He walked with Snape to the fireplace as around them the Reciprocators got themselves into their respective groups and took their lists, reading them before disapparating, in twos and threes.

88888888

The sun was shining through the stained glass window that was adjacent Septimus's bed. Through the curtains of the four-poster bed, which hung loosely around it (Septimus just had to pull them across and pretend that they were a den last night, before Julian popped up underneath and scared him on purpose) did little to shield his eyes from the sunlight. He sat up. And then dragged the heavy covers from himself, pulling on yesterday's clothes grasping the letters.

Hopping around Septimus managed to put on his shoes one-handed, looking around and hoping that his stamping hadn't woken up anyone else in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory at so early an hour. He had to get out to post these before school began and it took him until he was at the back of the Fat Lady's picture, which was immovable despite his attempts, to realise that, were he to get past the portrait he would have no idea how to get to the Owlery, much less what he would do there.

Crawling back through the passage he stood in the common room and looked down at the names on the letters. "Caelius Lupin" was written on one and on the other "Cecilia Lupin". Essentially they both contained the same information; they told his uncle and his mother about his first few days there, about his first day of lessons, about how he was Sorted (or rather, he Sorted himself) into Gryffindor. They told their recipients how excited he was about Quidditch and that the lessons they'd had so far, Spellwriting/English and History of Magic/History had been "all right" and Herbology/Plant Biology had been "cool."

In Caelius's letter he had written about how he hoped his father would be better soon so he could tell him about Hedgewards and asked if his uncle would be able to take him to see him. He had written to his mum that though he would miss her it was "brilliant" that she was helping the government with "governmenty things", that he was looking forward to seeing her again and that Professor Snape wasn't that scary. He also thanked her for his broom which he had taken for a practise fly in the grounds on Sunday when the Quidditch trials were going on, but told her he never thought he'd be good enough to play for his house.

As he gazed upon the letters he turned slowly, thinking that it was probably a good think that he hadn't got out to post the letters; they'd be out of date soon anyway and there would be more things to tell both of them. Septimus was wandering back towards the stairs when he came to an abrupt stop. Looking up to see what the obstacle was he was taken aback at the sight of Sam Potter, grinning down at him.

"What are you doing up so early, Sep? And where are you going?" He glanced towards the back of the Fat Lady's portrait then back at Septimus who felt a guilty look cross his face.

"Er, I was, er, I wanted to post these," Septimus replied uncertainly. "They're for Uncle Kay and Mum. Only…"

"Only you need to get past the portrait." Septimus nodded. "You're not supposed to be wandering around before seven. The caretaker, Filch, will go mad!"

"But even if I did, then where do I go?" He looked towards the passage himself. "I want to send them today, but I don't think Mervyn will be able to carry even one, let alone know where he's going, and – "

"Come on." Sam stepped past Septimus. "I shouldn't do this you know, but, well…" He knelt at the entrance and began to crawl before looking back at the young wizard. "So, are you coming then?"

Septimus followed Sam out of the main castle doors, down the hill that lay beyond. A tower loomed in the distance. From its summit birds fluttered in and out and, as they approached Septimus realised this was the Owlery. He followed Sam up the steps that looped around the outside of the tower, realising he should have put his cloak on such was the bitterness of the wind. It was no better inside.

"Here we are. The Owlery." Sam gestured towards the owls. There was a multitude, of all species and varieties.

"If you don't want to send your owl," he continued, fussing a tawny owl perched calmly with several others, you can always use a school owl. They have a yellow ribbon around their foot. Septimus, who had been nuzzling Mervyn turned and, ignoring the little owl's indignant squawks and pips walked over to them.

"They're much calmer than the new arrivals," said Sam, giving the one he was fussing a worm. Now that Sam came to mention it there was a distinct divide between those owls with yellow ribbons and those without. "Ah, is she yours?" he continued, fussing Mervyn and cooing at him.

"He," said Septimus, watching as Sam gave his owl a worm too.

"He's only a baby. He'll soon grow into a big strong bird," Sam continued. "Go ahead," he added, noticing Septimus's reticence in untying the yellow ribbon and wrapping the first etter around it. "They won't bite – "

" – much!" said Septimus as he tried to retie the ribbon, snatching his fingers away each time he tried to attach his letter.

"Just be quick about it," said Sam as he came to Sam's side. "They've had a few weeks of rest – probably – don't – want to go out with messages," he added, deftly avoiding the nips, but only just. "Here," Sam added, giving the delivery owl a worm. They watched as the bird hopped to the nearest windowledge and, with a stretch of its wings, soared into the air.

"Thanks," said Septimus as they made their way back down the stairs. When they got back to the common room they realised that several more people were up. Severus felt nervous – perhaps they'd ask where he and Sam had been? But when no-one did he smiled again at his older friend before climbing the stairs and getting changed. Reaching into his back pocket he pulled out the letter intended for his mum. He hadn't sent it, only Caelius's. Why? It'll be out of date soon, he thought to himself. And I when I've had some more lessons I can write to her again.

"Where were you this morning?" asked Julian as they walked down to breakfast. "When I woke up your bed was empty. Entering the Great Hall they found a place at the Gryffindor table and, as they had discovered on Sunday morning, simply had to ask the table for what they wanted to eat and it would appear in front of them.

"I went out, with Sam," he said. "I just wanted to send the letters I'd written for Mum and Uncle Kay."

"Cool," said Julian, tucking into his porridge. "You can show me later, I've written home, too."

"What've we got first?" Septimus asked as he too ate his porridge.

"Arithmancy," said Julian, "slash mathematics. What do you reckon, adding up? Decimal places?"

"No idea," said Septimus as Darren Black passed them. Septimus made to smile but the boy turned his head and carried on walking.

They walked down the main corridor, past the potions/chemistry classrooms and those for students who had transfiguration/science next. As they turned the corner they almost bumped into two older wizards arguing loudly with one another. Septimus and Julian stopped, staring at the older boys. One of them, Septimus remembered, was the boy who had shouted at Gordy Springs for taking his sister's wand. The other, tall, blonde, athletic, was a boy called Jason Crudglington. They knew this as Jason Crudglington introduced himself to Crystallia Andersson as both he and Julian were making their way back to their compartment on the Hedgewards Express.

Jason, by his own account, was the son of a non-wizard who specialised in improving wizard and non-wizard engineering, bridges, canals, and so on to make them multi-user. Jason himself was also a non-wizard and hoped to go into the family business, his father seeing fit (and he agreeing) that an education here, at Hedgewards, for a non-wizard would be a unique advantage. Currently however his magical education was being taught him by Fraser Blewitt who was holding his wand so close to Cridglington that it almost went up his nose. At the sight of both Septimus and Julian Fraser took a step back, looking past them and over to the main corridor before, taking one last disparaging look at Jason Cridglington, stalked away.

"Now that's what you call friendly," whispered Julian as they hurried past the scene.

"Come on," said Septimus, or we'll be late.

"Yes, we will," said a voice behind them. Both boys turn to see Rufus Lestrange hurrying up to them.

"I've got arithmancy next," said Rufus, looking at his timetable, "well, not exactly next but now, but – " he looked at both of them brightly, his round, dimpled face creasing into a smile and his long curly hair bobbing like maids at court to a queen. Septimus and Julian gave one another a look.

"I think it's up this way a bit," said Septimus politely.

"Then I'll come with you," said Rufus, taking a step between them. "You've got arithmancy too, haven't you?" he asked, peering at Septimus's timetable, upside down and under his arm. As all three of them walked together to their classroom Julian leaned in and whispered to Septimus, "at least he hasn't got his music with him today."

"I have," said Rufus, smiling back of them, Julian's irony apparently lost. "Only it's in my pocket. The teachers can confiscate it and I don't want that to happen.

An hour and a halt later, during which Julian had caused a fire when trying to predict the square of thirteen and what significance it would have on their teacher's day, and the boys headed out of the classroom. It was breaktime. They hurried out, hoping that Rufus wouldn't follow them and to their relief the boy turned the other way.

In Julian's pocket were the singed remains of some of his top trumps cards which had spontaneously combusted the night before when he and Septimus were playing. Forgetting about the incident Julian said, "wanna game?" before pulling out the cards. As he did so Thierry Henry's arm blew across the grass shortly followed by Steven Gerrard's head and shoulders.

"Oh bother!" he exclaimed, shaking his head at the remains of his Premiership cards. "Now you'll have to show me where the Owlery is, I'll ask mum and dad if WHSmith have any more and if they can send them.

"Never mind," said Septimus, watching the hand of Maradona catch up with the legs of Pele. "Perhaps we can make our own up, or do some for Quidditch."

"Mm, yeah, could do," said Julian, halfheartedly. "I don't know much about Quidditch."

"Do you want to go and watch the practice tomorrow night?" asked Septimus brightly. "Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are having a friendly. It's a bit like football but – "

"There's brooms involved, I know that." Julian jumped down from a rock ("granite, with quartz inclusions. I'm impressed. But more basalt than you can shake a stick at, round here") and they both headed towards the corridor.

"Now what?" asked Julian. Septimus looked at him blankly, and he added, "you've got the timetable. I've already lost mine."

"History of Magic/History," said Septimus. "I think classroom seven is this way."

"Straight on, I think," said a timid voice behind them. It was Ariella Blewitt, who overtook them and pointed. "This way." Behind her, and them too were Gordy Springs and Rufus Lestrange.

"It's odd, the names," said Julian as they turned a corner. "For the subjects. They could've just kept them the same – we'd have known what they meant."

"Would you know what "astronomy" was?" asked Septimus, laughing. Julian laughed too.

"As I said, odd. Except for astronomy."

"That's because your uncle wrecked the school." In front of them Fraser Blewitt stood in their way. Immediately Ariella stopped, dropping her head at the sight of her older brother and stood next to him.

"You don't even deny it," he sneered. "And, by all accounts, your mother is a nutcase too and your father's as good as dead!" Septimus stared at the boy before following his momentarily distracted gaze as Darren Black passed them by. The look on the boy's face, coupled with his acknowledgement of Fraser Blewitt and Septimus had a pretty good idea where it had come from.

"Shut up!" said Septimus, "or I will – "

"Well? Will what? Vex hex me?"

"Yes!" Julian stepped forward and was trying to eyeball Fraser.

"And you! You're nothing but a talentless chump who took the wrong turning at King's Cross!" Blewitt held up his wand, before levelling it at Julian, his eyes darting to Septimus.

"No!" shrieked Ariella from her brother's side. "You can't – "

"And I'll deal with you later!" snarled Blewitt, "consorting with – " his eyes darted back to Julian, wanting to say the word.

"You're not causing trouble, Fraser, are you?" At once Blewitt's face changed from one of mangled ire to a blank canvas of innocence. From behind him a tall, dark haired wizard in Wellington boots smiled warmly at the older boy.

"Professor Longbottom. No, sir." Blewitt lowered his wand. "I was just asking these boys if they could…show my sister where she needed to go."

"I'm glad to hear it." The tall wizard, his dark beard reaching only to his collarbones and plaited with fishing flies and wire bent down towards Julian and Septimus.

"Mr. Lupin," he smiled. "I've heard you've an interest in herbology. And Mr…?" 

"Julian. Julian Scott."

"…Mr. Scott." He looked between them. "You both seem like helpful young men keen to escort this young lady to her next lesson?"

"'course we will," said Julian. "It's Ariella, isn't it?" Ariella nodded, refusing to look at her brother, who appeared to Septimus as if he might explode.

"This way to History of Magic/History," said Professor Longbottom, gesturing the way down the corridor. Ahead of them, when out of sight of the professor and Fraser Blewitt Ariella looked at them both before striding on ahead.

"Phew," said Septimus, "that was close. His wand looked as if it was ready to kill you!"

"Mum says it's not wands that hurt people, it's wizards," said Julian as he picked up speed. Time was rushing on and he was keen not to be late for the second lesson that day and suffer the ignominy of points off their house.

"Even so. I don't know how to defend yet, even. We haven't got "Defence against the Dark Arts/Practical Defence" till tomorrow.

They ran the rest of the way, bolting into the classroom. The students that had been on time looked around at Septimus and Julian.

"We're for it now!" whispered Julian, taking the last two empty chairs near the front. They needn't have worried about being late. It took a further three quarters of an hour for Professor Binns to arrive, Sam Potter escorting him.

88888888


	34. Developments, Small

Thursday dawned bright as Wednesday had done the day before. The sunlight through the window woke up Septimus again and he turned over, pulling the covers closer to him. What a week it had been: a week ago he and mum had gone to Diagonalley and bought the Lightningshot, got fitted up for some robes and chatted about what Hedgewards would actually be like. After that he'd gone out with Julian across the mountains for a last day of exploring. Then he was on the train with the other students, eating the Hedgewards feast, watching as the older students tried out for places in their respective houses' quidditch teams, learned about why it was important to respect everyone despite where they came from, what they looked like and what they could do.

Now, two days into lessons and Septimus had to admit he was settling in. It helped that he was familiar with the school, a little, and had met the headmaster before. But he could understand that there were students who were feeling uneasy and weren't getting involved. The evening before Sam and Crystallia had organised a "getting to know you" evening where each new student had to think of something magical that began with the first letter of their name. Then they had to go round in a circle and remember everyone's names. He was "Snakey Septimus", a source of high amusement amongst all of them when Julian "Jelly Legs", on his turn, who wiggled his hips at his friend's moniker.

His friend, who knew no-one but Septimus, was unfamiliar even with magic let alone Hedgewards and the idea of secondary school, was not uneasy – his personality meant he fitted in in most sun shone brighter. Septimus sat up, defeated in his hiding from it. Then he heard a hiss in the vicinity of Julian's bed.

"Sep, you awake?"

"Yes," Septimus hissed back. "You?" There was a pause.

"That's a silly question, Sep." The curtains of Septimus's bed parted and his friend launched himself on his bed. "I was thinking, perhaps before breakfast, if you could remember how to get past that glamorous lady, you could show me how to send an Owl letter?"

"Sure," said Septimus, pushing past his already-dressed friend. "Let me just get something on, will you?"

He descended the stairs to the Gryffindor common room hoping that this time Sam wouldn't be around. He'd remembered the spell that their prefect had used to get past the Fat Lady when he went with Sam the previous morning – "Alohamora" – but wondered, as his friend traipsed behind him, letter in hand, who the "glamorous lady" was.

"The glamorous lady," Julian repeated when they got to the tunnel that led to the portrait. "The "Fat Lady"!" Kneeling down and beginning to crawl Septimus rolled his eyes. Of course. Julian was like that. Quietly, towards the portrait's wooden back Septimus levelled his wand, closed his eyes and commanded, "Alohomora!"

"Well, the cheek!" The voice of Gryffindor's entrance-portrait uttered her outrage as the spell turned the hinges on her right hand side. "You're not supposed to be out of the tower until eight o'clock. Septimus opened his eyes. Instead of the portrait's back before him he was astonished to find the flagstone floor of the corridor in front of him. The magic had worked.

"Come on!" he scrambled out of the tunnel and down onto the floor, Julian scampering behind him. "It might close before you come out!"

Septimus could almost see the steps that he and Sam had left in the grass-sods which led the two boys from the castle over the tarn and to the base of the Owlery. Up, up they climbed before they were standing in the doorway to the hub of the world, where "airmail" was a given fact once you had chosen your owl to do the mail delivery for you.

"Is it always this noisy?" asked Julian, putting his hands over his ears.

"Yesterday it was," said Septimus, crossing the uneven floor to where Mervyn was roosting. He tickled the little bird behind his ear and his owl stretched up, nuzzling back. Julian hurried over to his friend.

"He's yours, isn't he?" Reaching over too Septimus withdrew his hand and let Julian fuss Mervyn. At once, the little owl opened one eye and stopped inclining his head, staring at the owner of the hand that wasn't Septimus with one shoe-button eye. As if in acceptance as Julian fussed him some more Mervyn closed his eye and allowed him the honour of the fuss.

"So," said Julian at length, looking around the busy information terminal, can we choose any owl? Can I send my letter home with Mervyn?"

"One of the school owls can take it for you," said Septimus, pointing him in the direction of the yellow-ribboned tawnies. "Mervyn is too little; he has to be here with the others for at least a year, till he's grown and learned how to do things." 

"And the rest of the owls belong to other students?" Septimus nodded.

"Here," he said, taking the letter from Julian, who was nervously edging towards the indifferent school owls and, with a whole one morning's experience, folded the letter in half and tied it round the closest owl's leg. With a hoot of acceptance the tawny owl hopped to the window, launching itself out of the window. Julian looked down. Septimus followed his friend's gaze, an imaginary parabola, as the bird soared.

"Cool!" He turned to Septimus. "That's_ so_ cool! It's taking my _letter_! How does it _know_?" Julian paused as he crossed the floor towards the steps back down, leaning out. He turned back to Septimus. "I know, it's magic, right? Septimus?" He poked his head back inside. "Sep? You coming?" He walked back over to his friend. "Sep?"

"I'm just…" Septimus folded back up the letter that he was going to post to his mother, putting it back into his trouser pocket. "Nothing. Come on. We'd better get back before we get it trouble."

"That's what I said!" exclaimed Julian as he hurried after his friend.

Approaching the Fat Lady's portrait again Septimus levelled his wand. The castle was a little livelier than it had been as they'd left; the clock tolled seven as they stood before her.

"Oh, it's you again," she sniffed, looking down on them. "Don't you spell me again, young whippersnappers. It's seven now – you can use today's password." Septimus hesitated and exchanged looks with Julian. They were outside the common room now; it was at seven that Professor McGonagall met with the prefects to share the password. They then went back to their respective dormitories and shared it with the rest of the students.

"We don't know it," replied Julian, grinning. "Being on the outside, rather than in, you see."

"How unfortunate for you." They both turned. For it was not the Fat Lady who had addressed them. Septimus felt his heart drop as Professor McGonagall stared down on them both, her face rigid with fury.

"And just what do you think you are doing, being out of the common room before seven?" As Julian began to answer she held up a hand. "I do not think I wish to know, Mr. Scott. Suffice to say you will be cleaning the common room this evening – "

"Oh, Professor! We – "

"And tomorrow evening too."

"Professor! We – "

"Shush!" hissed Septimus to his friend.

"It's my fault, Professor. Julian just wanted to send a letter home, and felt embarrassed about asking – "

" – I wasn't!" Septimus nudged him in the ribs.

" – seeing as he is a non-wizard, and didn't want to feel he was going to be laughed at." Septimus felt Julian's eyes boring into the side of his face. He knew if he turned Julian would probably thump him. Instead he gave his most earnest look to their Head of House."

"I see." McGonagall looked at Julian, who was now staring at his feet in fury, then back to Septimus. "Well, we have procedures in place, Mr. Scott. However, I understand the first few days of school, especially for yourself, may be a little uneasy. Now – " She looked at the Fat Lady. "Leonix Leonis!" The portrait swung open.

"Thank you, Professor," nodded Julian, glaring at Septimus with an "I'll get you back" look on his face. He jumped to passage-height before crawling through. Septimus was about to follow but McGonagall held up a hand.

"No, Mr. Lupin. Before you dress properly," she began, looking at his jeans, sweater and trainers, "you need to come with me. The Headmaster wishes to talk to you."

Septimus glanced at Julian, whose look had changed to one asking, "what've you done?" and he shrugged and shook his head at his friend.

"Why, Professor?"

"I've no idea. But he wants to see you. Now."

Walking through the corridors, past the Great Hall and to the entrance to the Headmaster's office was by no means an easy one when you're trailing a teacher. The students he passed all stared at Septimus asking the unspoken question which his friend had voiced just now. What had _he_ done? He stood next to Professor McGonagall who, to the gargoyle at the bottom of the steps said, "Bath Buns". Steps descended and she ushered him up them. He was about to find out.

At the top of a long climb Septimus came to a door. Nothing fancy was there about it to indicate that it was one led into the headmaster's office and a thought struck him as to whether it was the right one. Well, there was only one way to find out.

After rapping on the door a few times and waiting Septimus wondered whether he should go back down when he got no reply, and then panicked. Behind him the stairs had gone. Not simply been closed back up by the statue below, but had disappeared. He turned, and faced the door again. He had his wand, but what good would that do against wood and stone? He only knew two spells and while one of them helped he and Julian get out of the common room it didn't guarantee that it'd work here. The other one tied shoelaces so he didn't have to bend down. Useful, but of no use to him in this situation.

Septimus knocked again, knowing that he must try the "Alohomora" spell if no-one answered when, as he was about to knock, the door opened. Before he hit Professor Snape in the chest, Septimus lowered his hand and looked up at the Headmaster of Hedgewards.

"Y – you wanted to see me, Professor?"

"Ah, yes. Septimus, please come in." Severus Snape held the door open to him, widening his gesture invitingly. "You're most welcome." Closing the door behind him Professor Snape walked past Septimus and stood by his desk, looking down at the sheaves of paper and shuffling them into a neat pile. "Thank you for coming so promptly. Please, take a seat. I won't keep you for long," he added, looking up momentarily.

What had he done, thought Septimus as he nervously made his way to the roll-backed chair made of a dark wood and whose seat was lined in velvet. Then another thought struck him.

"Is it about Dad, sir? Is he awake?" Snape looked up again and fixed Septimus with a stare.

"Your father is, as far as I understand, still in a stable condition. As far as I know he has not woken. No, it is about you whom I wish to speak, Septimus." He moved away from his desk and walked round to the other side of it, leaning against it. Septimus felt his heart quicken. Yes, as Julian pointed out, he had been to Hedgewards before and Professor Snape had brought him home – from his friend's point of view that meant they were practically family – but the great wizard standing before him, so many accomplishments to his name, and with the power to expel him at a stroke, asking to see him early one morning was not filling him with confidence.

"The last time I saw you was in the summer holidays, when your Uncle Caelius brought you with him. You were still deciding, I believe, whether Hedgewards was the right school for you. So, I wanted to ask you," Professor Snape continued, "whether you still believe that the choice you made was the right one?"

What had he done? Septimus felt his heart quicken and the dread that he had felt as he had ascended the stairs to the Headmaster's office that he had put aside returned like a lead weight in his stomach. Why was he asking him this? Did the Professors all think he was no good, too lazy, or incapable of magic?

"Sir, I'm sorry," Septimus began. He felt an apology was the best way to start as his mind rested on the surefire reason that Snape had summoned him. "I know I shouldn't have been out of bed before hours yesterday, and today too, but I wanted to send a letter to Uncle Kay and one to mum as well, and, well, Sam, Sam Potter that is, our Head Boy? He showed me where the Owlery was, and, this morning asked if I knew how to send a letter home, and I took him, I knew he felt embarrassed at not having done it before, not that he'd ever admit it, but – " He stopped abruptly, as Professor Snape held up his hand.

"Septimus Lupin," he began, a glimmer of amusement on his features. "If I didn't know better I would have believed your mother was standing before me. Relax, there is nothing for you to worry about, although I will add that there are rules governing dormitory hours for a reason."

Septimus nodded absently as his mind wondered, "so if not that, what?"

"So, back to my question, do you believe you chose the right school in Hedgewards? Just answer the question as is, Septimus, you don't need to analyse it to decide if your answer is the right one. If it's the honest one then it's right." Septimus nodded again, thinking…feeling…

…was this the right place for him? The week had gone so fast, like he would never have believed. He'd been looking forward to going to Hedgewards since he had known that it was a wizarding school, it had always felt right, until…

"Yes," replied Septimus, eventually.

"A well-considered answer," acknowledged Professor Snape, leaning back against his desk. "But, may I press you..?" He paused. "You don't seem wholly convinced by your answer. What is making you wish that you were, say, at your local non-wizard school, perhaps in Edgeford?"

Septimus breathed. It was true – a part of him did wish he was at Edgeford High.

"I do wish I was there, sometimes." He looked down, and an image of his mother's face drifted into his mind's eye. He looked back at the Headmaster. "I suppose I just thought, that if I was back there, in Edgeford, everything would be all right, mum and dad would be there..."

"I understand your mother explained to you the reason for her leaving, just as you were leaving to come here?" Septimus nodded a little, before frowning. "And I take it you made your decision to come here before she left?"

"She was going back to Durmstrang to work," Septimus replied, "and that it was important work. That's what she said."

"Indeed," conformed Snape, dropping his head a little, his hair brushing his shoulders. "Her work for the Ministry requires her to be away. And you are here. It is understandable that you were concerned for her welfare when you believed she was missing." Severus nodded. "And yet, she was fine."

"But Dad – " he began, a little thought in his mind prodding Septimus to pay attention to the fact that Professor Snape knew he hadn't sent the letter he had written to his mum.

"What you need to understand Septimus, is that, although she is not with you at the moment, although she is working, she has not abandoned you." Snape folded his arms and dropped his head. "What she does is of vital importance for the security of the country. I know you probably don't really understand but, without her there would be more fighting between wizards and non-wizards, for example." Septimus felt his hand tighten over the letter he had procrastinated about sending that was still in his pocket and, in the other, his hand gripped something else too.

"Is there anything you need to tell me, Septimus?" Septimus felt his head drop.

"I have this." Septimus opened his hand and showed Snape the floo powder that his mother had given him. "I know I shouldn't have it, that I shouldn't use it." Caelius had told him on may occasions about the security risks and problems that the Ministry faced by the illicit use of the floo network. "But mum said that, if I ever felt like I wanted to talk to her I could use it." He held it out towards Snape. When the headmaster did not take it, Septimus dropped his hand and looked at him.

"Your mother clearly wished you to keep in contact with her," Professor Snape replied as Seprimus put the powder back into his pocket. "Though you may not use the powder, a non-wizard type that is banned. Why is it that you've delayed in sending the letter you have in your other pocket?" Septimus frowned. How _could_ he know?

"Er, well, er," he began, looking down. "I, er, just wanted to wait, you see, until we had some news about Dad." He stopped and watched as Professor Snape stood straight, away from his desk and circled back round. "I thought, if I gave her some news about Dad she might – "

" – come back?" This time Septimus felt his mouth fell open. "Septimus Lupin," continued Snape, spearing an apple from his fruit bowl using what appeared to be a bird-headed letter-opener. He smiled as Septimus watched in amazement – the bird had flown from the end of the letter-opener and had begun to peck at the apple.

"My phoenix. Many live in flames and ashes, but this magic of a different sort. This letter-opener came all the way from an island north of Finland. The Finns who live on Spitzbergen have spent years trying to keep themselves warm in their climate." Septimus watched, open-mouthed, as the tiny phoenix opened its mouth. A little jet of yellow-blue fire toasted a section of the fruit and the smell of toasted apple filled the air.

"Marvellous, isn't it? I've found it very useful in melting the wax on my correspondence or, depending on the sender, the entire letter." Septimus smiled, though tried not to laugh too much. It was no wonder his mum was fascinated by magic, no wonder Julian thought it was "cool".

"I have had the privilege of working with your mother for a number of years," Professor Snape went on, fussing the metallised phoenix as it made short work of the apple, toasting each section as it went. "What she has given you are things that no-one else could. She has given you life, Septimus, and opportunities. You can repay her by doing your best, studying hard, working well, being successful in whatever you do. Just because she is not at home in Edgeford does not mean she is not with you, inside, watching as you work, cheering with you when you get onto the quidditch team next year." Septimus looked at Snape in fascination. "Your mother is still with you even though her skills and talents have taken her away for a while. Now, look – "

He approached Septimus and stood by his side. On the wall opposite them, where what looked like the faint outline of a door in the brickwork Professor Snape levelled his wand.

"I am not sure if your uncle has any plans to take you to see your father," he said to Septimus, "he has not approached me to ask if you could be withdrawn. However…" Septimus watched as Snape circled hid wand slowly at the wrist before flicking it towards the wall. An image appeared, like a movie on the wall, appearing like a watercolour painting. As he watched he realised the picture on the wall was getting larger and closer to him, a dark image in which Septimus could just make out candles glowing in the darkness.

As he got used to the darkness Septimus began to make out different features in the image. The outline of a bed appeared to the left, and on the right, set horizontally, another. As he peered closer he realised what he was looking at, or rather, who.

"Dad!" Septimus reached his hand forward towards the left-hand bed, but his hand went through the image, resulting in a swipe.

"The image you can see can't be touched," said Professor Snape, "nor can we interact with it. We are mere observers. However, as you have rightly observed, your father," he gestured to the left, "and Sirius Black." Septimus's head jerked to the right and he watched a short, plump woman, a Healer, Septimus knew, briskly approaching the bed, a white, folded sheet over her arm and a no-nonsense expression. He watched as she looked at Sirius first, wiping his brow before looking up to the drip which was feeding into his right arm. Taking a reading before pulling off his sheet and throwing over the other Septimus saw his body, inhaling sharply at the large, ugly bite across the stomach.

"I've seen Mr. Black when I've been at the hospital," said Septimus, "and he always looked so peaceful. I…"

"Did you know he was attacked by a werewolf?" Septimus looked at Professor Snape, then nodded. "There is a good chance that he will be fine." Septimus turned his head back to the image as he heard voices in the hospital, and nine tolls from the clock that resonated around the hospital. At the same time the school bell rang nine. Septimus kept his eyes on the Healer who was apparently talking to another about his father and listened intently.

"…responding to treatment. The lycanthropy treatment that Severus Snape has provided may yet be yielding results. Mr. Black's blood pressure has risen steadily over the past twenty four hours…" Septimus turned to look at Professor Snape again, whose eyes were fixed on the picture. He looked back too.

"…the dose…" The Healer who had brought a sheet for Sirius Black had turned to his father's bed, had changed his sheet too and was now looking at the canula on the back of Remus's hand. The second healer was looking at the chart too. "…he may have been lost days ago, had it not been for Mr. Snape's genius…" Septimus turned sharply to look at the Professor again.

"They said your name…"

"Would it help you to know that I have been asked to help with treatment for your father?" Septimus nodded. If there was a more intelligent wizard, a finer mind she didn't know it; what he didn't know wasn't worth knowing. Septimus heard his mother in his head, saying the words that she had done almost a fortnight ago to him, and on several occasions before. To know that his fine mind had been put to Septimus's deepest worry was comforting.

"Now," said Professor Snape, turning his wrist before flicking it again, the image disappearing as it had appeared, "I think you could find room at the bottom of the letter in your pocket to add a few more things. I know your mum would really appreciate hearing from you."

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A shower of rain and three Reciprocators had ducked into a bus shelter. Their night, although long, had stretched into the morning. So many isolated incidents, being called all over the country to support the Aurors or one another. Bathsheba Braddle had arrested, stunned and stupefied eight Conjurists who had chosen to break into, or just break the windows of, non-wizard businesses, houses and, at Anfield, the windows of the football club. It had been tiring, keeping the peace, defending property and walking the street.

"I feel like my feet are about to fall off!" Nymphadora Tonks pulled off one shoe, and then the other, rubbing them in turn. "Do you know I had to petrify a nutter on the top of the Angel of the North to get him down – Merlin knows what he was trying to do." She leaned back against the glass, sighing. "Jeeson said there'd been a few fires lit in the suburb behind; no-one knew who'd lit them but there were some non-wizards out shouting about wizards doing it.

"It was the same in Cornwall," agreed Kingsley. "Looe, Fowey and Mevagissey have lost their tourists now but still there were conjurists targeting guesthouses and souvenir shops. I caught one hiding in a fish-bait shop. They'll be smelling him at the Ministry long after Seatoller's finished questioning him, I shouldn't wonder."

"That'll teach him for being so keen," replied Tonks. "Ah, that's better." Bathsheba looked down. Instead of changing her shoes, as she would have done, Tonks had changed her feet to a slightly smaller version of her own.

"Good thinking," she nodded, approvingly. "How are you, Tonks? It's been ages since you've been out on a job."

"Very well, 'Sheba," Tonks nodded, "a while, I know. It's good to be out."

"And how's Nick, your beloved?" asked Kingsley, in his inimitable style. "And dear Freya?"

"Both good," she nodded, her tone changing to one of guarded caution. "Nick's a manager now; heaven knows how that happened…Freya," she paused, "is on the right tracks at last. She's working in a café at the moment, brining in some cash for herself. She wants to work with animals; I know that she's been looking into a course about veterinary care – working for a vet would suit her, I think, so she's saving up."

"Is she still seeing Dudley Black?" asked Bathsheba. Tonks nodded.

"But…I think it upset her that Cecilia wasn't in touch with her. I hoped she wouldn't go off the rails again – I'm just hoping that it's what she did as a teenager and she's grown out of it."

They looked down the road. Cars were passing now, on their way to work; people were on the street with briefcases and bags, on their way to work and school.

"I can't wait to get back to HQ," said Kingsley, looking the other way to where the traffic lights at a busy junction had changed. Cars began to make their way down the dual carriageway, picking up speed as they passed the bus shelter. "A bacon buttie made by Molly Weasley – perfection."

"I expect we should be going," agreed Bathsheba, "we've got plenty of witness statements to submit; I think you did the best out of all of us, Tonks," she nodded.

"Let's get walking," said Kingsley as a bus approached the stop. Bathsheba looked up. The weather was good that morning. A walk would be good to clear the mind before returning to the Ministry. Besides, Grimmauld Place wasn't far, something she pointed out to Tonks as she complained that they could have disapparated.

"Henrietta," said Bathsheba as they went. "Has really no-one heard from her?" Tonks and Kingsley both shook their heads. "I mean, it's not like Tabs's situation," she added.

"I've been expecting Hen to breeze in all summer," agreed Kingsley as they turned a corner into an estate of smart, Georgian terraces.

"Does she even know about Sirius?" said Tonks as they approached Grimmauld Place. "I mean, she was in Strasbourg before they got attacked.

"I'm sure Caelius has it all in hand," said Kingsley, looking to the numbers on the houses. "6…8…10…14…here we are." They looked in unison to the houses. Kingsley closed his eyes and before them 12, Grimmauld Place slid out between 10 and 14. They climbed the steps and Kingsley opened the door by levelling his wand at the latch. As he pushed open the door the smell of bacon wafted down the hall. They all inhaled at the delicious smell.

"Good old Molly," agreed Tonks as they made their way to the kitchen.

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It was late at night. The feeling that he needed to get back to Septimus at the cottage was a hard one for Caelius Lupin to shake. Always leaving him, always under the security spell. It was a wonder that, in his care, the boy had remained as normal as he had done. The chair upon which Caelius was sitting creaked under his weight as he shifted on it, running his fingers agitatedly through his long, hair.

Remus seemed to be getting worse. Despite the specialist care, despite the hope he had in Snape, Remus was still lying there, as ill as he had looked on that fateful day when he had been brought in. His care was second-to-none here. The Healer assigned to both him and Sirius seemed to be more than capable, and was keen to look further than existing remedies and potions to keep themselves comfortable. But now, looking at his dear brother's face, peaceful in its unanimity, stomach-churningly still, he wondered how long it would be until _something _happened.

He closed his eyes, but not for the restful escape of sleep. The argument he and Snape had had a few days before replayed itself in his mind…

…Snape accused Caelius of lying, or rather, concealing the truth over one aspect in the role they had shared…he had wondered aloud how much else Caelius had manipulated or kept from him…

…Caelius had, in turn, accused Snape of not getting potion to Remus quickly enough…

He opened his eyes. The pragmatist in him knew that potions had to be tried and tested, researched and investigated to be effective; there would be no point hurrying something if it did nothing or, worse still, made his brother worse…that said, Caelius could no more champion Remus's health than the tides could stop ebbing and flowing…why could the solution not be given quicker? It was not as if Snape didn't have access to the Romanian expert in vampirism…

Caelius reached down for Remus's hand as the Healer came to top up his drip before turning to Sirius, changing his too before taking his pulse and recording it on a clipboard hanging by his bed. She had not done the same for Remus…had the Healer given up hope? All urges to run after her and question her actions Caelius managed to suppress – just. He looked back at Remus.

Never when he had accepted the role from Aberforth Dumbledore did he think it would come to this. Would it have been the same for his predecessor? Was it despite or because of his involvement with government that such a situation were to have occurred? Would they both be lying there like this if Aberforth was still alive? Would he have handled things differently?

Undoubtedly so. But what gave Caelius hollow comfort as Head of the Reciprocators was that the force or forces from beyond the borders of the country which were so effective, rolling fast and efficiently between conjurists, co-ordinating attack after attack, were being challenged at last. It wasn't Britain alone. And one pattern seemed to be in common: for those attacks which appeared to be organised in some way (rather than being wizards who had had too much to drink and thought they would make trouble under the umbrella of Conjurism) was that it was just their property which was being targeted. Why were those with no magic being spared the ire and hatred of these extremists? What was really going on?

And then there was the sign, the "C" within a "c". So like the sign of the Auld Magic, a circle within a circle. Even felt that he could empathise with the conjurists when they based their beliefs on tacit tenets entrenched in wizardry since the dawn of time.

"…do you not feel one iota of guilt and shame of what that boy has gone through at your hand?" He heard Snape's voice ringing in his ears as their replayed argument continued in his mind.

"She did her duty; what she had to do, what she _wanted_ to do."

"I doubt she wanted to be away from her son. In fact, isn't he the very reason she returned?"

"It is for her son, for the sake of our world that sacrifices have to be made." Surely Snape had to see that.

"They do, but sometimes you presume too much on people's good nature and bend their weaknesses against them."

They had been allies at first, back to when he had perfected the wolfsbane potion that not only eased symptoms but limited them for good with one dose. Now, after all that had passed between them in recent months, quite the opposite could be said of Severus Snape and Caelius Lupin. An air of mistrust and uncertainty between them, an atmosphere in which they both operated.

"It was not I who cut off Cecilia's only correspondence so cruelly. Have you made the potion she sent you the instructions for?"

"I have not, for it was incomplete. A waste of time and effort when there are more important things which need to be done." He held out his hand, gesturing towards Caelius. "But that does not justify your treatment of Cecilia."

Caelius remembered pausing, his words hovering on his lips. Unspoken, they were still conveyed to Severus Snape's mind, paraphrased perhaps, but with none of their meaning lost.

"She is still married to my brother, Snape," Caelius had said at length. "My brother is not yet dead." Snape said nothing and jerked his head in an awkward nod before reaching into his robe and pulling out a green vial.

"The next dose of antidote. See that your brother gets it." Caelius had given it to the Healer as he had arrived that evening, and he presumed she had used it in his replacement drip. "Sirius needs this; you'll recognise it, Caelius. Though he has a better prognosis he is not yet conscious and, even when he is, the poison will still be in his system." As it was in his, Caelius mused. The wolfsbane potion, even the modified version that seemed to be helping Sirius did not clear all of the symptoms. "Besides, he may indeed have a relapse before he can be treated to any great extent."

Unlike Remus, thought Caelius grimly, who had little hope. They both knew it, but neither uttered the words. Just how much Snape might have wanted such a thing to happen he could but speculate and even for speculation he had precious little time. What was keeping his brilliant mind from allowing them to recover? Was it simply limitations in terms of time and availability of ingredients? Was he, Caelius, indeed hoping for the impossible?

"Do you remember what Aberforth said to both of us?" Snape had asked, but Caelius had refused to acknowledge his question.

"My regards," Caelius had replied, and withdrew his wand from its offensive posture. "Good evening," he'd added. Seconds later a cloud of green smoke coiled from where the wizard had been standing as Caelius Lupin had disapparated.

"Mr. Lupin…Mr. Lupin…" From his thoughts Caelius had been pulled by a healer. He looked around, blinking in the semi-darkness. The healer was not Remus's and he looked at him, frowning a little.

"Good news, good news indeed!" Instinctively Caelius looked at his brother, but the healer pointed to where Remus's and Sirius's healer was, moving and rushing about. And from the bed the sheets twitched.

"Mr Lupin," said the healer again. "Sirius Black…he's awake!"

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	35. bigger than small, but not so big

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The month wore on and the September nights were getting longer and days shorter. Soon it would be October, a time for celebration in the wizard world. Cecilia looked out of her window at the sky, filled with cloud, low level and, as they skitted along below her, every so often dispersing and reforming so the waves below crashing against Durmstrang's castle-tower foundations could be glimpsed.

It was so much colder here. Cecilia, who had never been one for cold weather, had taken to her winter clothing and would not be seen without a thick jumper and at least two pairs of socks. It didn't help that the windows to the Institute were barred with wooden shutters and she had moved her bed to the corner of the room, as far away from it as possible.

She looked down. Perhaps she should make an effort to lose herself in some sort of research here again. With nothing to occupy her mind Cecilia was convinced she could feel the inhospitable conditions here more acutely. Before, she had given her mind over to a cure for lycanthropy, even though it existed here, because her mind could not leave behind the potion she had been developing for Remus in the Other World, the one that she had come through from all those years ago, nor could she ignore the other potion, the one for Harry, even though they were completely irrelevant and redundant here. The third, for which she had officially been at Durmstrang, commonality between wizards and non-wizards she had long ago vowed she would never touch again.

She looked into the newly-ashen fire, the fuel having burned out a few hours ago and sighed. It would be a good few hours more before an elf came to refill it. How _could_ someone survive here? How had _she_, for nearly 2 years?

But she had. So different the Institute was compared to Hedgewards that it was, Durmstrang had its own flavour. Torches illuminated the corridors and classrooms; students wore suitably insulating clothing made of a variety of animal products, heavy velvets and dense cottons, dressed identically with no differentiation for house, for there was no such system here. They were focused in their work; they had to be: a parent who would send their child to Durmstrang would have to see them pass rigorous academic tests designed to stretch their capabilities to the limit. Failure was not an option either; all students worked feverishly, completing work independently, fighting for space in the cramped library as early as five in the morning, choosing their lessons carefully around the availability of their staff.

And if the students were dedicated it was nothing compared with the teachers. Many were not seen from one week to the next, working feverishly on their current research and often having to be reminded that they needed to teach lessons and getting put out at having to leave their work. One teacher Cecilia hadn't seen for the first fifteen months of her being there and only saw him because he was being carried out of his classroom on a stretcher by two elves, apparently having fainted from malnutrition and dehydration. It was no wonder she was sent there by Caelius – she fitted in perfectly.

Cecilia made her way over to her bed and, fully clothed, got in. This time it was different. Now she was here and she was going to spy, as she had been instructed to before, on the research of the teachers there, she would put her mind to a measure of espionage. It was something she had to do if it were to keep her mind off Septimus and Remus, for arguing about her lot was, of course, futile.

This time it _was_ different, she was in control. And that she and Ragnhild were able to talk, both professionally and a little personally was what she needed now that she wasn't deliberately cutting herself off from everyone and everything out of spite. She had a liking for Professor Andersson professionally, she was talented and dedicated, and she cared deeply for her daughter's wellbeing and happiness. Unpopularly she had held out for Crystallia to attend Hedgewards and worked on two research areas on order for her, and her non-wizard husband to afford the school fees and to live for, as a non-wizard, he was virtually unemployable in the wizard world and spent his time fishing for a living around Iceland's coast.

For everything that Durmstrang stood for represented fundamentalism of magic, the boiling down of magical talent to its basics, and Felix Felixssohn, the wizard from whom she had borrowed "The Art of the Wize" from and made a pair of copies, was turning out to be the figurehead that had brought it all together. Magic was dominant, and reason and scientific rigour applied. Though she didn't know what entirely Caelius wanted her to spy for, or on whom, she guessed that keeping an eye on Felixssohn wouldn't be far from the mark and she had written some preliminary information down and sent it via a secure owl that her brother-in-law had organised for the purpose to him.

Cecilia had even taught two lessons on her supposed subject area of magically-relevant science. The students, unlike those from Hedgewards, and Hogwarts before, sat in silence bar the scratching of quill on parchment, wrapt in her discourse on basic genetics before scuttling off, questionless, to complete an assignment she had set. This at least tied in with Ragnhild's line of research, namely the prevalence of redheads in magical communities and whether redheads of all cultures were predisposed to magic. Ragnhild, in turn, was delighted to be working with someone who had previously "worked for Severus Snape." Cecilia had not corrected her, though the words "_with_ Severus Snape," were ready at hand whenever the woman mentioned it, which she did frequently.

It had been another conversation with the Truthteller witch that Cecilia had guessed at another reason that Caelius had returned her so readily. The conjurist and conjurist sympathisers put a lot of store in the dates of 30th October,30th April, when, supposedly, time was at its thinnest. Ragnhild had explained that Halloween was a day to not be scared, when wizards dressed up because of the next days, 31st October and 1st May, to frighten all of the monsters back into the dimensions, Conurists believed Auld Magic worked best on 30th October and it had been supported by Felixssohn's empirical evidence where he had measured the energy levels of tens of thousands of spells a month before and a month after both 30th October and 30th April, confirming that those cast on these dates were easiest to perform and most likely to be successful.

And she already felt her role as spy was coming to an end: Felixssohn had published "The Art of the Wize" for the European market and written in English. How close it was to the original manuscrips from which she had made two meticulous copies Cecilia was not certain but she did feel that the effort she had gone to procuring the information for Caelius had been somewhat wasted. In addition it was a core text for all Durmstrang students and she remembered in the early days children wandering about the school, books tucked under arms, one of which being Felixssohn's. How long would it be until Hedgewards students had copies of the same?

The Daily Prophet, one outside publication that was available here via owl delivery (copy of which she had picked up having been left behind by a student) spoke about the education system in Britain being "worryingly compromised" in their admission of non-wizards, accusing the government of twisting the facts about the benefits of inclusion, about how the accommodation of such students would affect the education of all of the students at Hedgewards and the problems the wizards and non wizards would face, for they would not mixing…

Cecilia had rolled her eyes: traditional non-wizard schools had never had a problem accommodating wizards who chose to attend those schools, and all primary schools took a mixture of both. It wasn't as if children from both heritages had never met one another before. Cecilia looked at the fire, which was dim and dull and into which she had tossed the "Prophet" once she had read it. The grate had crackled as it consumed its fuel and, for a moment, Cecilia had wondered who was trying to contact her. She'd blinked, and turned away when the flames betrayed the copper salt which must have been used to treat the newspaper, for the greenish tinge must have come from the "Prophet" as there was no floo network connection at Durmstrang.

Neither indeed were pensieves permitted. The idea of such was looked down upon by the teachers as well as the students as being a waste of time and a compromise to their time which could otherwise be spent working and improving their grades. Such was the fear of failure…Cecilia could understand Ragnhild's point of view; the pressure was almost oppressive, cruel even; so much so that she didn't want her own daughter here. The place was full of contradictions: the staff embarked on work which was at the cutting edge of research as diverse as wand lore and the use of magic in theatre whilst still maintaining an exclusive and oppressive wizard ethos; no modern magical technology was permitted and yet the students were expected to be able to floo in the outside world and, more recently, use portable pensieves; the school ran as a sort of collective where the progress and outcomes were determined – in all the time she had been there she had never seen the headmaster, let alone knew who he was.

The research was transient too; Ragnhild often bemoaned the fact that ultimately her work was pointless and in vain because, apart from her findings being published internally for use by staff for further research it would be read by precisely no-one outside the tall walls of Durmstrang. Even the research-staff, ranging from a wizard with clearly elf heritage, Ragnhild herself, a Truthteller (and as such mistrusted and shunned in the wizard world), and the rumour that the member of staff in charge of plants and herbology had traits akin to the carnivorous plants that he studied all these were overlooked in the name of pure academic pursuit. Even her own thinly veiled background as a non-wizard had probably been guessed at, and yet, as long as she produced research that could be used by others in the future no-one cared. Yet the privacy and exclusivity of what went on here was fiercely defended, even by Professor Andersson; under no circumstances would they, as a school, endorse international academic co-operation. Should anyone discovered that Cecilia had disclosed the information that she had to Caelius, and Severus too, it would be more of a disgrace than the whole school discovering she was a non-wizard.

So many incongruities. And yet, with a Durmstrang education the students here who emerged aged seventeen blinking into the warm sunlight they had a pick of careers with companies and the government queuing up to offer them a position.

Cecilia got to her feet. Perhaps now would be a good time to make herself available to the students. There was never a fear she wouldn't have some in her classroom for someone would need to understand the basics of genetics, but really her desire to teach was more to escape the fear that was looming over there, out of reach in her mind but hanging there, like a stormcloud. Teaching would put her feelings about her situation and her betrayal by Caelius out of her immediate thoughts.

As she opened the door to her room Cecilia was met by the chill that was ever-present in the corridor, its narrow girth bordered on the outside by large windows open fully to the seascape around them and whatever the current weather happened to be. Even though it was sunny outside the wind whipped along, chilling her and she pulled round her the white velvet teacher's cape which was probably the only thing that really did keep out the cold.

On the stairs she passed Ragnhild's research room. Bent over her dishes Cecilia could not help wondering how close the image of the witch, so focused on her work that she could work up to thirty hours at a time without a break, was to herself when she was so absorbed in her research. It was no wonder that Dobby would scold her, in his unique, subservient manner.

"Oh, Dobby!" exclaimed Cecilia under her breath as she watched Raghhild pick up a small vial out of which she drew with a syringe a small sample before adding it to another. "If only you could see me now!" Ragnhild then shook the mixture before opening it and pouring it onto the gel plate. A DNA analysis. Genetic research, Cecilia knew. Her friend's research focused on the prevalence of wizard redheads, statistically disproportionate in all cultures and societies across the world, even in countries where this traditional Scandinavian colouring was unheard of.

She had spoken to Cecilia about it: the fact that redheads were sensitive both emotionally and physically, burning at the mere forecast of a sunny day, intolerances and allergies, eczema and asthma; sensitive to bright lights and loud noises being more than a touch irritating. All documented in non-wizard genetics work and yet, as wizards, redheads had the ability in magical communities to be able to empathise with other wizards making them excellent diplomats. At the moment, Cecilia knew, Ragnhild was on the long path of trying to establish exactly what gene was involved in empathic abilities.

Cecilia turned away and began to make her way down the deep, narrow spiral staircase again, past Felixssohn's door, which was usually bolted shut. She paused, thinking about his contribution to wizard academia. "The Art of the Wize", by Felix Felixssohn, that was what the publication was called, now it had been published in wizard bookshops, sitting next to the history books that his ancestors had written. _They _were history now; Mendel Felixssohn, his great-great-grandfather, author of The Mythe of the Aulde Magicke and its Use, Vol. 3" and contemporary of Joseph Black, the champion of wizard-non-wizard collaboration and a supporter of Black, would be turning in his grave. That he had once described Britain as a land with no magic was probably true; he was Norwegian, where the idea of magic had been unfettered by change for centuries, but it was hard to look at magic, as an outsider that Ccilia was, and separate auld mafic from it, so part of wizards' lives that it was in spells, rituals, convention, even the languaged used. How people could think that wizardry could be brought back to Auld Magic when it was so different to their lives now was just fooling themselves.

Besides, Cecilia thought as she continued downwards, the changes in wizards and non-wizards genetically over the centuries probably meant that the pursuit of Auld Magic in its historical, in-harmony-with-the-earth-and-nature sense that Conjurists purported to desire, meant that it was ultimately futile, which was probably why Joseph Black's idea of reciprocation between wizards and non-wizards had readily been accepted here.

The murmur of students milling about below brought Cecilia out of her thoughts. In the entrance hall, which originally was on the ground but had been raised up from sea level with the school's ever-increasing library, small groups of students huddled together at the sight of her whispering and giving her hopeful looks. So rare was the appearance of a teacher other than in their classroom a hubbub rose. So different here to Hedgewards Cecilia thought as she crossed the atrium and headed towards the corridor that led to the classrooms. Behind her, an expectant group of students began to follow her, fifteen, twenty, following her in the hope that she would be teaching that afternoon.

Cecilia remembered when she'd taught her first lesson at Hogwarts, fifteen-year-old Harry Potter in the class, then teaching him in the evenings about genetics, something that the young students were now following her for, demanding her time, so unlike the reluctant Harry. You could see why teachers stopped here, year after year, decade after decade, teaching students who not only wanted to be taught but demanded it. You felt proud of your work, you felt important. Even the craziest teacher at Durmstrang who believed that Napoleon was a myth and aliens darted around the universe in ships powered by Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans was listened to with reverence.

And yet, even here some history was different. By pushing collaboration Joseph Black had secured fortuitous gains for society at the end of the eighteenth century for western civilisation because it meant as industry and wealth grew helped by the use of magic rather than determined individuals linking things up together in other ways. Engineering, for example, had not been as big, for there was little need to cross Britain so quickly, so railways had to wait another eighty years before non-wizards wanted to travel across the country quickly like wizards could on their brooms, with floo powder or by disapparating

When the students were seated Cecilia began her lesson, the next one along in sequence to mitochondrial action in her list of things to teach. As she launched into her discourse into the role of RNA in protein synthesis Cecilia's work with Harry – the old Harry, in the other dimension – she recalled how she had incorporated parental love, namely Lily Potter's for her son as a physical thing, something which could be measured, recorded and observed in Harry, with a view to developing his potion. Even now, thinking about that at the back of her mind as the students before her scratched out the notes she had etched on the blackboard behind her copied them furiously, it seemed so remote, like a story she had once read.

Perhaps she had now, finally, got the Old Place out of her system, just as she had been on the brink of getting to the bottom of Harry's potion.

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In another school, as dissimilar an academic institution as the former described, a first year lesson about history was being given. Septimus tried to stifle a yawn and had to use all his effort to stop himself from falling asleep on the desk. He blinked, glancing at Julian who was appearing to be wrapt in the topic that the ghost-teacher Professor Binns was giving but was in fact drawing the detail of the stained-glass window that could be seen translucently through his body.

It wasn't as if what the teacher was talking about wasn't interesting – his first lesson seemed to be quite interesting, about wizards who fought on the side of Henry V in return for his help against their persecution by the French. Wizard and non-wizard history together, as Uncle Kay had told him. But that had been Wednesday. It was now the following Monday and the Professor had continued with the Hundred Years' War, year by year, in agonising detail. He'd only got to 1435 in this lesson, which meant that there was at least another week of it to go.

Fixing his eyes on his parchment and realising he had written precisely nothing that lesson he took up his quill, trying to focus on what Professor Binns was saying. But it was hard to concentrate on a teacher when his voice was so monotonous so instead he wrote down what he knew about the Hundred Years' War. "It lasted 100 years," Septimus wrote, before looking at his own untidy writing. That didn't seem right. These things didn't usually happen neatly, like a hundred years. He crossed it out, before holding up his quill.

And "History of Magic/History" had had such a promising start. Professor Binns had talked animatedly (or as animatedly as a ghost could) about the History of Hedgewards and how, as some of those people before him were from non-wizard heritage, it was a momentous time in the history of the school. Behind him, a huge book on a lectern had turned over a page by itself, a quill rose and had begun to write as the Professor had spoken, recording what he had said. Septimus looked at the book now, its early pages, near the bottom by the cover-section on the right hand side looked brown and frail and Septimus wondered if the book had actually sat there, day after day, year after year, recording events as they happened.

Binns had mentioned Auld Magic too, and had explained that it was the origin of modern spells and magic, words which had the right rhythm to work in pre-history, to live in harmony with nature and channel its gifts to make their lives more comfortable. "That's my research area," he'd declared, before beginning with his long speech beginning with the expulsion of all wizards and witches from France in 1366, who the French had blamed for the plague.

"It's all very interesting," Septimus had said, on the evening of their first history lesson as they'd made their way towards the quidditch pitch to watch the first of the friendlies – Hufflepuff versus Gryffindor. "But Auld Magic – that's what the Conjurists believe in," he'd added to Julian uncertainly as they'd pushed their way, with other students in a general hubbub of excitement in what looked to be a close match, despite its status as a warm-up match

"But it's wrong, isn't it?" asked Julian, "to talk about Conjurists? Won't Binns get into trouble for talking about Auld Magic?" Septimus had shrugged.

"It's the first year Hedgewards teachers have to do research," Septimus replied, nudging Julian as Rufus Lestrange headed in their direction, "Uncle Kay said it was to strengthen international relations. Professor Snape's research is into diseases; Professor Longbottom's mad on plants – "

" – he's great," nodded Julian, "I wish we'd had him in the summer – he could have told us what that yellow and red flower we found on Old Tarn was – "

"Yeah," Septimus had nodded in agreement, thinking about their Herbology/Plant Biology Professor who had started their first lesson by taking cuttings of deadly nightshade that they were going to graft with a plant which slowed down the heart rate, to see the effect of the second generation plants on frogs. "But Durmstrang won't talk to Hedgewards," he'd added. Just as Julian had been about to ask Septimus why when a girl pushed her way between them and out of the main entrance doors.

"Wasn't that – "

"Ariella?" Septimus nodded. "Better keep out of the way, or else – "

"Or else what?" Behind them, as they turned quickly at the loud, mocking voice, Fraser Blewitt stood over them. "Do you, know why Ariella was upset?" He turned accusingly to Julian, "do you?" he asked, this time, of Septimus. Both of them shook their heads.

"Well, something's upset her." To one side Septimus saw that Blewitt was being followed by Darren Black and another boy with the rather unfortunate name of Wilbur Whimsy who had been at his non-wizard primary school and had had to put up with the annoyance of being asked day after day to turn their teacher into a frog.

"It wasn't us," Septimus said, and not for the first time she felt rather sorry for the girl at having such a boy as her brother. But instead of stepping past them, as Septimus had thought that he would have, in order to find and comfort his sister Blewitt remained staring at them.

"And what's this about Auld Magic?"

"What?" asked Julian.

"You were talking about it. Tut tut," Blewitt added, shaking his head mockingly. "I think your head of house should know that two of her students were talking about a banned subject."

"How can it be banned if Professor Binns had told us about it? Ask Ariella; she was there." Septimus nudged him sharply, ignoring his friend's look of mild indignation.

"Careful," Septimus had added, talking in the dark look that had descended on the older boy's face.

"And what were you doing in Binns's class? Levitation?" He began to stalk round them both, stating, at first, Septimus and then, Julian.

"No, but I can use technology," replied Julian boldly. "See? A crane?" He angled his arm as if to lift up something that was heavy. "Or a gun?" As he was about to pull out of his pocket an imaginary gun. Immediately Fraser Blewitt had pulled out his wand.

"Leave her alone, Blewitt," Septimus had heard a voice say as he'd felt his body tense. It was never god when a wizard held his wand out in your direction, even if they were at school. It was Sam Potter. He then turned to Darren Black and Wilbur Whimsy. "On your way to the match, lads?" Slowly, with little enthusiasm, both boys nodded.

"Well, you can come with me," said Sam, waiting silently for Blewitt to lower his wand and, when once he'd done that in stony silence their head of house, their head of house stepped between Harry and Julian, taking both boys around the shoulders momentarily. "I'm the seeker tonight. Probably why we'll end up losing …but rules are rules, and I can't be a beater." Septimus had thought about the first match he'd seen at Hedgewards, and his growing desire to be a part of the team."

As Sam stepped by, Fraser Bleweitt was just lowering his arm and Septimus noticed something on the older boy's arm. He realised that it was the same as the symbols that had been daubed, much to Caelius's annoyance, on the walls of Platform 8 and three-eighths. Conjurists, Septimus knew. But why would anyone want the dangerous symbol of Conjurism on his arm?

"And you're into sport as well," said Sam to Darren, who said nothing, but glowered silently. Behind him, however, a voice had called out.

"Oh, me too!" behind Wilbur Wimsy appeared, unmistakeably, the curly hair giving it away somewhat. "My mum's the minister for sport," he continued, pushing his way through between Darren and Wilbur, who pushed him back as he jostled them. "I can't wait for the match…"

Victory, the present-moment Septimus thought, as Professor Binns continued with his discourse about King Henry VI, who was declared mad by his doctors because he claimed to be able to change objects into different ones, a trait of a person with a small amount of magic. And he was glad no-one had chosen to make an issue of the word, "freak!" being yelled in their direction. Julian, who had been suffering from a bit of a cold had simply grinned at Septimus, assuming that the word was meant for him. Now, looking across at his friend's work he was delighted to see Julian had covered his page with mediaeval architecture that was the window frames surrounding the stain glass he noticed the words," Joan of Arc" written on his book. Now that was interesting, and perhaps a little ironic. She had been on the side of those wishing to eliminate all wizards from France and was then accused of witchcraft herself, for which she had been burned at the stake.

As the lesson drew to a close and the mass living coma that was all of the students in the room lifted; people stretched, read their work, puzzled over their notes, or rather a lack of them.

"Twenty inches, or two hundred words," he'd added, "for those who wish to submit their work in non-wizard measurements, on the Lancastrian part of the "Hundred Years' War" and how wizards and witches were involved in the official version of the story…

Instead of checking his work, which he knew would be sparse in detail, Septimus put his hand in his pocket, a bolt of joy running through him as he felt Uncle Kay's letter that he'd received five days ago. Though he knew it word for word Septimus opened it anyway and read through it. Sirius was awake, he read, skimming over his uncle's words, there's hope for your father.

Hope for his father.

"Hey, what're you grinning at? I saw you making notes." Julian looked down at Septimus's work. "Not many, by the look of it."

"Well, there's some. We're not in art!", Septimus replied, with equal jocularity.

"Ha!" Julian looked back at his own work. "And I misdrew a few bricks. I think that was when he started to walk about a bit." Julian folded his own attempt at notes into four and shoved it into his robe pocket. "Not that it'll be any use for the homework. Come on," he added, looking at the door, "we don't want to be round here when it's quidditch tonight." Another friendly, Gryffindor, who had technically won their friendly against Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw.

As they made their way down the corridor Septimus's hand drifted to his pocket and he tapped it momentarily, wondering if his mum knew, or even if she'd got his letter to her yet.

Septimus smiled as they rounded the corner which led to the staircase that led to the Gryffindor common room, hearing Julian sneeze and cough, a cold coming, probably, Julian commnted, as he told him about the how he thinks different rocks might be influenced by magic. As they got to the common room door, Julian dealt with the Fat Lady and, moments later, they were crossing the common room before climbing the stairs which led to the dorm so they could changed. No matter how much he got on with his friend he felt Julian's words taking a back seat as his mind was speculating on the news. Not that he could do much about it. But the simple fact that Caelius had bothered to tell him made Septimus delighted and filled him with hope. Sirius was awake. There was hope for his father.


	36. and bigger

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Down past the level of the basement Cecilia stepped, past the entrance to Durmstrang, the door from the hall's entrance that led outside in a spiral around the lower part of the tower, past the door that led to the kitchens. Below the human living space of the school was the owlery where the post arrived, shaken from the legs of birds and collected up by a small team of elves, sorted into batches according to addressee before being delivered.

Few people came down here; the smell was outrageous and the steps so dimly lit that you could easily trip and tumble fifty feet to your doom. As the thought crossed her mind Cecilia trailed her left hand on the central stair column that supported the spiral steps in their helix. But it was worth it. Three weeks into September and, much to the chagrin of an elf who had been sorting out letters for surnames A-F, Cecilia had grabbed the pile, leafing through them before realising she needed to be harassing the elf sorting letters to people with surnames G-L. One letter, a letter which made her heart quicken at the small letters which had been unmistakably written by her son.

Cecilia moved to the window, allowing the mid-afternoon autumn sunlight illuminate the envelope and she sat on the small sill, blocking the access of several owls who, squawking their indignation, fluttered noisily to another entrance so as to rid themselves of their burdens, in some cases rather heavy.

Septimus. Her darling boy. A tear pricked each eye as Cecilia pictured his face, pictured where he would be, perhaps in the common room, perhaps in the library at Hedgewards, telling her about his time there.

…he had arrived safely…he was in Gryffindor…Cecilia read the words again – that would please his father, for it had been his house too – she read on…the Sorting Hat hadn't Sorted them; they had been told to choose…so he'd _chosen_ Gryffindor…so had Julian…she smiled, picturing the weight which must have lifted from little Tim's shoulders; she knew he'd worried, though he'd not said…

…reading on she discovered he liked most of his lessons and liked it at Hedgewards, so it seemed in the letter…and his elation had grown at the end as Cecilia's heart quickened when he talked about "great news"…Sirius was getting…she read the sentence again, the hope descending into her stomach, fading…Sirius…getting better…

Cecilia closed the letter and held it close to her chest. Sirius was getting better. She looked out of the window, at the dull line of clouds that skimmed the edge of the visible atmosphere. Well, that was something, she supposed. If he did come round he might be able to shed some light on what had happened to them both, and then Severus could take this into account in his treatment…

…it just seemed so…insignificant. The last time she had looked out on the same seascape she had been commandeering a captainless boat, sailing to Britain where the Lupin family, catalysed by her and Remus's reunion and mutual pledge to one another in June, were to live together in peace and health. The last thing Cecilia had betted on, as she'd drifted off to sleep in his arms, was that she would be back here at Durmstrang three months later, their family trisected in such a manner.

A bird narrowly missed the right-hand side of her face and, with a measure of wisdom Cecilia got to her feet so as to make her way back up the stairs again. She'd had a letter from Septimus; he was enjoying quidditch and, as was reflected in his manner, he'd made no mention of the fact that she had gone back to Durmstrang. Her feet pounded the stone stairs as she ascended, knowing that deep down he must be upset.

"Thank you," she said to her son, present by proxy in the best Basildon Bond. She could tell that he disliked her being away, but practically there was little difference here to home. Except that she could not see Remus when she liked. "And you, Severus." For there was hope for her husband now.

At the top of the stairs, though a thick oak door Cecilia stepped out into the entrance hall. Before her students were milling around, analysing the staff lesson timetable that was scrolling above the Main Hall's archway, that led to the school's rarely-used dining room. A few caught her eye as she closed the door and a hubbub grew; students whispered behind their hands; others scuttled over to their friends and pointed. It wasn't nefarious – the students saw staff cross the atrium so infrequently that her appearance had caused excitement. Was she about to give a lecture? Who would it be called for? Had she marked work and was about to return it?

Crossing the floor the students shoaled around her like a family of sardines, following her in bunches as she headed to the staircase that led to the teachers' quarters, noise pocketing around the individual groups of students of different ages, low and furtive. As she got to the stairs Cecilia turned and looked at them. A sea of faces looked back, expressions of hope and expectation across each one. As she turned back to go back up the stairs the muted chattering rose in volume.

And above the noise a voice called out, "Lupin! Are your lessons today? Lupin!" When she didn't turn back and instead placed a foot on the first step the voice got louder and more insistent. "Lupin! _Mrs_ Lupin! We would know whether you are teaching today!" Cecilia turned back, scanning the faces of students who had now fallen silent. To address teachers directly regarding their lesson schedules was unheard of (it was traditional however to use just the surname of their member of staff). Whoever was shouting at her was overstepping protocol.

Then she spotted him, a student that she had taught before. Einar Solheim, a fifth year Norwegian student, dedicated and brilliant, was staring back at her.

"Not today, Einar." She turned to go again but noticed that the boy had pushed past a group of girls, an insistent look on his face.

"Then when? Excuse me for speaking out of turn," he continued, as his line-crossing was being commented on by the other students who were now fixed to the spot in their effort to make sure that they themselves weren't implicated in this improper behaviour. "It's just that we need genetics in order to graduate with our EWLs. There is no other teacher who can teach this to us, and we need to learn it." About to fire back a retort about speaking up Cecilia caught his eye. Commitment was in his expression and, in the boy's eyes, resolution. He was right. In the last ten years no-one could pass any of their science-related Extraordinary Wizarding Levels without being able to understand the foundation of genetics. She sighed.

"Not today, Einar," she repeated, a softer tone to her voice, "tomorrow." She looked at the whole group of students; they all needed to know what she was required to teach, right from the first years. Cecilia smiled at these far younger students and nodded. She was needed, clearly, and for the first time she actually felt needed here at Durmstrang.

Turning again she made her way up the staff quarters' stairs, this time not called back. She needed to speak to Ragnhild, talk to _someone_, and seeing as Professor Andersson was the only person who she spoke to here, she would speak to her. Coughing, Cecilia slowed her ascent up the stairs. The cough had been annoying her since she arrived back – at first she put it down to a virus, probably picked up at the station, but it hadn't left her yet.

The door of Ragnhild's room was open and Cecilia peered inside, sagging a little. She had been so keen to speak to her friend that her absence made her feel a little empty – Sirius had made progress and she needed to share and reinforce her hope that Remus wouldn't take long to follow. Sinking down on the step with her back to Ragnhild's open door she stared at the large blocks of stone that curved diagonally that made up the centre of the spiral staircase.

If only she knew more about Remus; if only she could be there, talk to him, hold his hand like a wife should. A small furnace of anger was stirred in the stomach as she recalled how Caelius had blamed her for not coping with the reaction of other wizards at Durmstrang to her being there…if only he could see her – it wasn't the other Professors that mattered really, but the students. But not to Caelius, whose prime aim of her being there was for her to spy…

...Cecilia thumped the stone step on which she was sitting with the flat of her hand. There was nothing he could do if there was nothing left to discover now, if her time was tied up with students and with covert information which, ultimately, amounted to nothing. If she spent her time teaching to fill in the time and with what she had spare dedicated it to her husband's wellbeing.

Getting to her feet Cecilia climbed again the spiral steps until she reached the floor on which her room was. And she could begin by writing to her son's headmaster. Even if Severus Snape decided not to reply she would make it clear that it was her intention to be as fully informed of her husband's progress as she could. And besides she could ask about Septimus too.

Taking a pen in her hand Cecilia sat at her desk and wrote. "Dear Severus," she began before putting the end of the biro to her lip, pondering how to continue. "If only you could have given me some lifeline the last time I was here; now I'm determined that I am kept informed on Remus's health." She lowered the pen, running through the sentence again in her head. That was how she felt, but she couldn't write it.

"...why couldn't you have at least written back to me; you have no idea how I was feeling here…"

No. Lying the pen on her desk she stared at the letters she'd made on the page, the name of her previous colleague. If only he had replied, validated her version of commonality in this world. But whatever she did was haunted, tainted, by her own past in the Other Place: Harry Potter and Voldemort; the lives parallel here about which Cecilia had convinced herself that, should she study to a great extent she might uncover differences and similarities which could shed light on why the potion she had made in the Other Place hadn't worked…oh! How she wished she could be free! Cecilia wished with all her heart that she could be in Britain, not least because of Remus.

Putting her forehead on the desk she screwed up the letter with her right hand and launched it in the direction of the waste paper basket. She couldn't depend on Snape; she couldn't depend on wizards. She had only one choice, only one which, deep down, she knew was the right one. She would stop here until she was allowed back home. Until then, she would teach – students_ needed_ her – and become as absorbed in work that interested her of any Professor. Any professor that was whose work was as far away from conjurism as could be.

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Torches flickered on the walls. In the intensive care wing of St. Mungo's Sirius Black was trying to sit up, much to the annoyance of the healer who was responsible for both he and Remus.

"How long am I going to be here?" Sirius asked weakly, looking around himself before resting his eyes on Remus. "And haven't you found out how to treat him yet?" The plump healer, who was trying to tuck him in, stopped suddenly and gave him a sharp look.

"As you know, Mr. Black, like your own treatment, Mr. Lupin's is being overseen by Professor Snape of Hedgewards School himself." Sirius nodded back in the manner of someone who had heard the tale so often it was mere background noise for his thoughts. "And, as few people have ever studied the effects of vampirism on wizards and witches you mustn't expect miracles." She turned and bustled over her trolley which contained a range of treatments and potions. Sirius watched as she picked up a clear cup which contained what Sirius knew to be Wolfsbane potion. He shuddered as she brought it over and looked at it suspiciously, jamming his hand down by his side.

"Now, there's no need at all to be silly. You are a grown man, Mr. Black. You know this is for your own good, even if it does taste, as you so eloquently put it yesterday, like goblin piss." Sirius gave her a look. She had been doling out aliquots of potion to him for the past ten days now. True, it did make him feel better, but it really did taste disgusting. And he would be on it for over a month, as she'd explained, so as to cover at least one lunar cycle.

Trying not to gag Sirius pulled himself up the bed a little higher in order to neck the revolting liquid as quickly as possible and trying not to gag. He almost managed it too, but he had not got hold of the water glass that was by his bed soon enough to wash away the taste and he ended up throwing up on the flagstone floor. Tutting her displeasure his healer drew out her wand. "Scourgify!" she declared, pointing it to the vomit, which immediately disappeared.

"Now then, Mr. Black, let's try again, shall we?"

"Let's not," replied Sirius, turning away, and looking instead to the wall, swigging the water as he slaked his thirst.

"That's not the attitude, Sirius," he heard a voice say, not the healer, and he turned and came face to face with Caelius. He smiled, which turned into a grimace, another wave of nausea passing over him.

"I know, but it tastes like piss," he replied, closing his eyes momentarily.

"I know," Caelius replied, pulling up a visitor's chair, a curved-backed and wooden, from the peripheral of the room. "But it's better than the alternative." Sirius blinked slowly. Of course. If anyone knew about taking wolfsbane potion it was Caelius Lupin. He watched as the healer passed Sirius another cupful and this time he was determined not to throw up, drawing deeply on the water in his glass shortly afterwards.

"How's it going, Caelius?" Sirius said once the physical disgust of taking the potion had passed. "You well?"

"Yes," replied Caelius, nodding to Sirius. "And you?"

"Oh, fine, fine. Just throwing up after taking potion and still being in hospital after being savaged by a half-breed." He winced – the huge wound across his left shoulder and chest beginning to throb again – and turned to the healer, who was now tending Remus. "As it time for some more painkillers?" The healer turned, shaking her head.

"This evening," she replied. "And it's the co-dydramol now; you've had all you're allowed of the morphine."

"Great!" Sirius muttered, looking back at Caelius. "Not even wizard medicine, and we're down to non-wizard painkillers."

"It's because of the wolfsbane," said Caelius evenly. "Snape needs to see how you're responding. You've got him to thank."

"Vomiting," replied Sirius grumpily. "That's how I am. But I will thank him."

"You'll get used to it. It's likely you'll be on it for the rest of your life. It could be worse," he added, noting Sirius's expression, blacker than his name. "The fact that you were unconscious for so long meant Snape could treat you. You won't get it as bad as me, he believes, and if you take the wolfsbane every month at the correct time, you'll barely notice the symptoms."

"Lucky me."

"Yes," replied Caelius, casting a deliberate gaze across to his brother, his torso wound being treated by the healer, the drip bag containing experimental potion on her trolley waiting to be hoisted to replace the near-empty one. Sirius sighed, getting the point.

"Can you tell me anything more about that day?" Caelius continued, leaning towards Sirius. "Has anything come back to you?" Sirius looked at him. He knew why Caelius wanted to know. And if he knew anything else, anything that anyone could use that might help Remus from his pitiful state he'd be shouting it at Caelius the moment he'd arrived. He shook his head.

"Only what I've told you…I've _tried_, believe me Caelius," he added, looking over to his friend. "I was behind Remus. He got the worst of it. When we stepped in we had no chance. It was as if the wizards had them trained on the door. I couldn't even get my hand to my wand, or Remus. I don't even think he knew what had hit him." He closed his eyes, shaking his head, images from that day, when they were attacked by a werewolf and a vampire in the home of suspected conjurists who they had been sent to talk to about the very point of keeping halfbreeds, illegal that it was.

"The conjurists are in Azkaban; the half-breeds too, under maximum security. I believe when Snape has finished with them they'll be deported."

"They should be destroyed, for what they've done," growled Sirius. "I know you're a politician Caelius but doesn't the sight of Remus there make you feel like that's what you should do?" Sirius shook his head, wincing at his pain.

"European law," Caelius said simply. "Tied to Europe as we are in magical politics and law we cannot go against the treaty, no matter what they've done. They'll be repatriated to their own countries, Romania for the vampire and Bulgaria for the werewolf, and face trial there."

"And we all know what will happen – soft sentences from corrupt, weak judges. Supported by the European Wizarding Council who have sworn to uphold decisions made by individual nations. And you can't pass a law to say that halfbreeds can be destroyed? I mean, they're not supposed to be here! Then Europe can defend our laws! Can't you – " he broke off, watching as a figure approached.

"James will be here soon," said Lily, standing by the Caelius's chair. Then she threw herself at Sirius, hugging him hard and he yelped as she pressed herself hard against him in a hug. "Sorry," she said, standing back up. "It's just…I've been down here so many times to visit you both, and now you're awake…" she sighed. "It's so good to see you're awake," she concluded. "How are you?"

"Honestly?" She nodded. "Awful. But better than I was, thanks to Snape, so I've heard." Lily nodded. "He's given it his priority, in terms of his research, that is. He's got more than enough to do with non-wizards at Hedgewards."

"So you managed it, Caelius?" he asked and the Head of the Ministry nodded.

"It's gone smoothly; the students have integrated. That's the least of our worries, but – " he broke off and narrowed his eyes slowly. "But, of course, I expect you're not up to hearing our current affairs." Sirius shook his head.

"No, please. Continue. I'm bored as hell in here."

"The incidences of conjurism have increased; they're happening more frequently and in more places. It's becoming an underground thing; it ranges from graffiti appearing, C in Cs, which is intimidating non-wizards to break-ins and smashing up of the shops of non-wizards, especially those whose businesses have connections to wizard matters. We've arrested and prosecuted several dozen this week alone." Sirius said nothing, but a look passed between him and Lily, a look which confirmed what they were both thinking. Caelius. Far too interested in political matters before anything else; to him the be-all and end-all.

"How's Remus?" Lily changed the subject and crossed the floor, standing next to the bed. She took his hand and held it. "I can't believe…" she broke off. Sirius narrowed his eyes as she looked at Caelius. "Any change? I'd hoped he'd have – "

" – we all did," said Caelius as she held her head in her hands. "There's hope. If I'd trust my brother's life to anyone it'd be Snape." Between her sniffs and sobs Lily nodded, her red hair bobbing.

"I know," she replied, "I just hoped…"

"Hoped what?" James stood behind his wife and hugged her. Lily turned and hugged him back as he stroked her hair.

"That Remus might have made some progress," replied Caelius. "We have Snape," he concluded. "There's always hope with him on our side."

"Sirius!" James, taking Lily by the hand, strode to bedside of his friend. "It's good to see you, mate. How are you feeling?"

"Like crap. But it's got to be better than being a vegetable. The potion's disgusting," he added.

"Snape says you may be free of it, depending on how you are after the next full moon. It's an experimental potion, he said, based on his original."

"I look forward to full moon then," said Sirius. Caelius frowned a little but said nothing. "What've I missed?" Sirius continued. "How's England doing?"

"Going to be in the World Cup final if their recent performance is anything to go by."

"I think Sirius means with the Reciprocators," said Lily.

"I didn't, but anyway," said Sirius, grinning at James. "What's been going on?"

"We've been busy. Conjurists," said James. "Henrietta's officially missing, too. She was last seen at Strasbourg just over a month ago. No-one's heard from her since then."

"Hen'll turn up," Sirius replied. "She's probably had a disagreement with someone and decided to give the silent treatment."

"I do hope you're right," said Caelius.

"And Cecilia turned up," said Lily, glancing over to Remus. "She's gone back to Durmstrang now; I hoped we'd have something to tell her by now."

"I shouldn't bother, not how she's behaved," Sirius said nastily.

"Sirius!" Lily stared at him, shocked. "She's changed…she's different…I feel sorry for her."

"What about Septimus? I bet she thought nothing of leaving her son. _Again_."

"He's at Hedgewards," interjected Caelius. "She agreed it was the best place, under the circumstances. Septimus is getting on there very well," he added.

"I don't even think that Remus would want her back," Sirius huffed, trying to fold his arms but failing, due to his injury.

"I believe they agreed to a fresh start, before this happened, of course," said Caelius.

"Oh." Sirius looked across at his friend and closed his eyes. If only he could do for him now what he could to help him. He'd always done what he could to help Remus and this time he felt so useless.

"Now now, Mr. Black." He heard the healer's voice near and he opened his eyes again. "I'm afraid you're over-exerting yourself." She turned to look at Caelius, Lily and James. "I'm here with your medicine," she added. "Then I think you need a rest. Your visitors may return tomorrow." He watched as Caelius got to his feet.

"We'll go," he said, nodding at the healer, before striding away.

"Us too," said James. "We'll come back tomorrow, though," he added. Lily raised her hand before taking one last pitiful look at Remus. Sirius closed his eyes again. When he opened them again, later, blinking into the gloom – the lights were always dimmed when it was nighttime – he wondered who it was who was on the opposite side of Remus's bed, head on his chest and holding his hand.

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It had been a lovely evening. Harry could not have chosen a better place to take Hermione for her birthday. True, it was only a pizza chain in town but the two of them had barely been out since they had used the expenses on Hermione's government credit card to eat out in Strasbourg. Before that it had been before they had begun to save for their wedding.

It had been the restaurant in which Harry had proposed to Hermione. He hadn't meant to do it there; the night he had had planned involved them travelling to Trafalgar Square on the night of the 1st January, pretending to have forgotten that the New Year's celebration there would have gone on the previous evening, before getting down on one knee under Admiral Lord Nelson and asking her to be Mrs Potter. He didn't know why he'd proposed at the restaurant. But Hermione had accepted, and that was that.

Hermione hadn't wondered aloud how much the meal was costing them, but said what a lovely surprise it was. Harry had told her that his parents had paid, mainly because he wanted to show he was thinking about the wedding too. But his dad was right – women did the organising of weddings; they knew what they wanted. All they wanted the men to do was show up, not too inebriated and smartly dressed for the photos.

It had been a lovely evening, though. As their courses arrived their discussion went from work, Hermione saying what promotions were in the offing, especially if they moved to Strasbourg to Reciprocators, discussing the heavy workload that all of Caelius's volunteers had been under over the past few weeks.

"But isn't it brilliant that Sirius is awake, though," said Hermione as she ate her olives. Harry nodded as he'd tucked into a particularly large piece of bruschetta. He'd chewed, but before he had had a chance speak Hermione had added, "but what about poor Remus though? I do hope it comes right for him!"

"I feel bad for Dad," Harry had replied, holding Hermione's hand as they waited for their main courses. "He's the one who organises the rota for that night."

"But it had been Caelius who'd upped the duties," Hermione had said. "And, no fault of anyone, but I for one am glad he did. Look at where we'd be if he hadn't. The aurors – you for example – would have so much to do single-handedly. And they don't only offer back-up, they negotiate and try to defuse situations. Our aurors just don't' have time for that." Harry had said nothing.

"Well, you don't, do you?" Hermione had asked. It was true. Though he was only a support auror, fitting in with his work with historical documents, and he'd only volunteered because Hermione had told him that they were struggling for time actually preventing crime because of the extraordinary amount of paperwork that needed to be completed because of the conjurists. Arresting a conjurist required a four-page parchment to be completed in order to prevent accusations of a prejudicial nature being raised and they needed to answer such questions as, "Was the person/persons involved in an activity which constituted conjurism that led to an illegal act against a non-wizard? Did you see them? Are you sure?"

"It's just so frustrating. We're there filling this all in and then they get before the Wizengamot and let off with a fine. I mean, I know there's not much else they can do, but – "

"We know we're doing our best," Harry had replied, inhaling the lovely smells that his chicken pizza was emanating in his direction.

"Yes. Caelius just needs enough evidence before he can propose a bill, especially when there's such a strong call from Europe to be tolerant to halfbreeds." Hermione had cut into her four-cheese pizza aggressively with her cutlery. "When I get hold of whoever said it I'll have a thing or two to say about half breeds and security. I mean, even coming here, the amount of conjurist graffiti – it's getting right out of hand."

"Sirius might even have a case against those conjurists still in Azkaban, wouldn't you say? For grevious bodily harm?" Hermione nodded, then shook her head.

"Who knows? Caelius has enough to deal with; I doubt Sirius would take it to court, but he would be well within his rights to do so, though." She'd leaned forward. "Thanks, Harry. Thank your parents. It's so great to be able to come out for a change. It's good to talk to you and not have the TV on all the time."

"You know," Harry had said, biting into his, "I really don't mind if you choose to work at the Ministry, even European office. I can do my work anywhere; I could work remotely if I needed to, travel in by floo every day," Hermione held his gaze, reaching for his hand.

"I know," she'd nodded. "Thank you. You're always very supportive. But don't get to see you as it is, let alone if I went to work at Strasbourg. Not that I'd never like to work there," she'd added, the mere flicker of hot ambition in Hermione's eye, "but there's no rush."

"What I do know is that Draco Malfoy has taken a keen interest in Henrietta Edwards' disappearance. Apparently there have been others; I don'r know the details…but I'm guessing he thinks they're related." Harry had taken a bite out of his pizza as he listened to Hermione then talk more about Henrietta, about the fact that there was so little to go it might be that she didn't ever want to be found.

"That's Caelius's take on it, unofficially, of course," Hermione had whispered covertly behind her hand.

"What's Sirius say about that?" asked Harry.

"Nothing. I don't think Caelius said that to him. He thinks she's just had a strop and would come out of it on her own." She'd dug into her pizza again, nodding in agreement at its flavour. "If you ask me, Conjusrists behind it."

"Conjusrists behind everything, if you read the Daily Prophet and believe every word," Harry had replied, grinning. "A drought last year and hosepipe ban – conjurists. Snow in April – conjurists…" Hermione grinned too.

"The fastest growing group of people to be used as a scapegoat for everything." And then he listened as Hermione had changed the subject back to their wedding, talking about invitations, numbers, prices, clothing, her dress and shoes, the number of bridesmaids, whether they should or shouldn't have favours, a master of ceremonies, when they should get married and if they wanted to save money to have a later wedding and only pay the evening meal fort their guests…what presents would they give the bridesmaids and page boy...the list went on and Harry listened, nodding at convenient intervals and attempting to nod at appropriate stages. They were wedding plans, that was all. Harry's indifference blended beautifully with Hermione's natural obsession. It wasn't until halfway through the dessert that she'd stopped, thanking him again for a lovely evening and also for not buying her anything and using their wedding money on something that she didn't need.

"There'll be time, in the future. Next year you can buy me what you like."

It had been a lovely evening. Harry soon called for the bill, knowing that the five quid spent on a bottle of Asti Martini for Hermione as soon as they returned back home might warrant some tutting, but mostly, he knew, she'd love the thought. The waiter returned with the bill and Hermione had noticed approvingly that the bill allowed the customer to pay in either wizard or non-wizard currencies.

This point was not noted well by the three wizards sitting near the window. Their disapproval was clear for all to hear when they'd shouted their disgust at the waiter who had left their bill on the table, accusing them of prejudice. Around them, muted comments abut over-reacting were made before the wizards, clearly so by their obvious midnight-blue robes and matching hats got to their feet, threatening a non-wizard man who was dining with a woman at a table near them, neither of whom had said a word to them.

It was this confrontation that had led the pizza restaurant to be lain waste, one of the many, and the latest to so suffer at the hands of extremist conjurists. Within seconds spells had been fired, the first hitting the innocent man square on in the chest, his dining companion screaming for help. The waiters and the owner had come over, by which time the three other tables of guests, all non-wizards had taken cover under their tables as one of the waiters, a wizard, had cast defensive spells as another had taken away the poor man.

It had been clear that the waiter could not hold off all three of the now-clearly conjurists (their symbols were evident in the lining of their robes) and, as wanton destruction continued by the two other conjurists who were not involved in duelling with the waiter, Harry and Hermione joined the fray, eventually arresting the two who had been destroying the restaurant, much to the distress of the owner.

Other aurors came to the disturbance, alerted by Hermione, and had arrested all three of the conjurists but not before the waiter had inflicted a hex on the first conjurist, the one who had originally made the comment. Looking around the restaurant as Mick Mullen, Peaceable Furnace and Evelyn Forteskew had taken them away, the glass in the restaurant windows shattered to crystals, the bar in a similar state, broken tables and chairs and distraught customers Hermione and Harry looked at one another.

"We'll be needed to make a statement," said Hermione, looking around. "They'll need to know what happened."

"But not tonight," said Harry. "We'll do it in the morning. Now I just want to take you home – perhaps we should have stayed in for your birthday. They'll get us if they need us urgently."

"And miss all of this?" Hermione smiled. "Yes. Miss all this." They walked out of the restaurant, Harry taking her hand. It had been terrifying, and they were trained aurors. He could only imagine the terror that the non-wizards caught up in it all had felt.

"You know," said Hermione, pointing in the direction of two apparating wizards who Harry soon recognised as his mum and dad hurrying in their direction, "I think next year, perhaps you could ask your parents to get me some bubble bath."


	37. The Second Match of the Year

"Come in, Minerva." From his desk in the top of the tallest tower of Hedgewards Severus Snape looked at the Head of Gryffindor House and deputy headmistress who had appeared outside the door running through her mind the list of important matters that needed to be discussed. The door opened slowly and, bobbing her head deferentially for a moment Minerva McGonagall stepped forthrightly up the steep step before treading carefully across the stone floor. Snape looked up and watched her before laying down his quill.

"Minerva," said Snape again getting to his feet. "Please, sit down." This time she closed her eyes and nodded once before sitting on the chair to the right of his desk, the morning light beaming through the lead-decorated windows that stretched across the entire eastern side of the tower, curving slightly with the wall above the rows of prior headmasters of Hedgewards hanging in their frames.

"Good morning, Severus," she acknowledged as Snape circled his desk, standing before her expectantly. "Please begin. I take it, you have some information for me?"

"Indeed I have, Severus," she replied, her manner stilted and influent and she tried not to let the weariness of the previous evening affect her, not, at least, until after lunch, when she would be free to rest for a few hours, to recover from a strenuous and exhausting night, both physically and mentally. "In fact, I've just come from Poppy; she's never seen such a queue of students waiting for treatments for colds and cough quite so early on in the year. Indeed, it's only just gone October and she doesn't usually have this many customers for her services until at least the beginning of January."

"Winter 'flu exacerbated by visits home for Christmas." Snape nodded wearily. "She tells me this every year when she comes to ask me to make medicinal potions when her stocks have run low. Has she suggested any pattern in the illnesses?"

"None that she can see. Some students have coughs, some colds. Some have 'flu and she's kept those students in the hospital wing. It does not seem that the students have anything in common, not age, house, geographical origin, magical ability…" Minerva stopped, inhaling heavily. "Nearly all of the non-wizards have an illness of some sort, but when you consider their number…so few…" Minerva yawned, dipping her head and hiding her gape behind her hand"

"Please, continue. I'd like to know what it is that's exhausted you so." She gave Snape a sidewards glance before rolling her eyes.

"Thank you. My visit to the students under Madam Pomfrey's care was nothing compared to the numerous visits to the dormitories, both in my own house and the other three." She shook her head. "These pensieves…it's getting out of hand! The students know that they do not get them out in lessons and yet no fewer than eight members of staff have confiscated more than a dozen yesterday alone and I had to take another fifteen off students using them last night…accessing the information of the Daily Prophet…communicating with their families…"

"Nothing which could not be done without access to either the Floo Network or a newspaper. However we have made it clear that we will not condone their use after lights-out nor to access third party material, and the Prophet does indeed count as that."

"Yes, yes," replied Minerva, slight impatience seeping into her tone. "But not to communicate with friends who have connections with known Conjurists, as both Fraser Blewitt and Henry Swales had been doing in the early hours of the morning." She shook her head. "I've since discovered, despite several sophisticated security spells, that they'd been discussing the contents of Conjurist pamphlets. I caught them out of bed discussing an attack that had happened in Grimsby and once I'd contacted the Ministry I managed to tell them a few things that they didn't know about the perpetrators! I mean, fancy students having such power! And Swales had sent the information on to other pensieve owners, now I know that the magical technology they're using is modern and in vogue, but it's precisely such power that could cause damage way beyond our control if we don't bring in more stringent measures." She stopped, waiting in silence so as to convey the graveness of the situation to Snape by way of a void in the conversation. At length Snape nodded.

"Indeed. Please inform their Heads of Houses. I will speak to them both." He paused. "As of this morning all teachers will have the power to confiscate on sight. If caught in lessons again then their heads of houses will keep them for a week and a third time will result in the devices being Owled home. Students will be told that they can only use them in their leisure time and they will be restricted to inter-pensieve use. I will enact restrictions on the coverage of pensieve usage with the floo network although we cannot limit what is said in personal messages, as we cannot restrict what is said in floo conversations or letters. Snape made a few steps towards his desk before turning to his deputy.

"Thank you, Minerva. You need rest. Once I have circulated the memo to staff I will see that your classes are covered this morning so you may rest." Cloak billowing, Snape made his way up the stairs to the upper floor located at the rear of the office in which many Hedgwards head teachers had kept many things personal and pertinent and on whose shelves were kept many thousands of jars and vials as befitting a Professor of Potions. Minerva stayed seated, waiting. Eventually Snape turned from his work, in which he had immediately immersed himself and looked up. He got to his feet and made his way down the thick oak steps with a light treat and was standing before his deputy once more.

"Tell me, Minerva," he said when, once she had acknowledged his reappearance with a nod and smile, "what have you to tell me? The Sorting Hat? Sorted, as our young people might say?"

"No, Severus. It is not Sorted, despite my best efforts, and believe me I've spent a good proportion of my own time on that wretched thing! Several hours a week! But – " McGonagall broke off, exhaling sharply in exasperation, before looking at him slowly.

"What if I were to tell you something about the non-wizards that Caelius Lupin insisted we have here?"

"If you are about to tell me about the undercurrent of bullying whose epicentre appears to be Fraser Blewitt and Henry Swales…"

"Oh, Blewitt!" exclaimed Minerva McGonagall, shaking her head. "He seems to be the cause of all sorts of trouble, not least communicating with Conjurists. His poor sister can't move for his over-protectiveness – no. I've nothing to tell you about Blewitt and Swales that you don't already know. It is about the non-wizards, their abilities. Their _magical_ abilities…"

"Go on."

"I have had discussions with several teachers, Grocott, Longbottom, Flitwick….when I saw it myself I thought I was imagining things and scarce could I bring myself to mention it. But it was Yellis who came to me and told me what he had observed." She looked at Snape, her eyes shining. "Some of them have abilities. Some of them, all of them in one form or another, are actually showing signs of being able to perform magic."

The paragraph hung between them for some time. Snape stood still, considering what he had heard. Minerva said nothing, waiting for the headmaster to say something to her. On the wall behind her the portraits had a _lot _to say and huddled into Phineas Nigellus's frame to whisper to one another.

"I wonder…" He looked at his deputy. "In what form has this magic taken place? Voiceless magic? Wandless magic?"

"As far as Grocott is concerned three students have made potions that have worked, namely the Paralysis elixir which made three toads immobile for over a week. He put it down to other students helping them but apparently all three deny this. Julian Scott, Septimus Lupin's friend had a war of words with Darren Black over it, apparently, accusing him of trying to make fun of him by tampering with the potion. Flitwick kept his magical students in during lunchtime when the wizards who had made the orbs that the non-wizards in his third year class smash against the wall. That explains the injuries that Belle Howard and Justine Grey suffered – they were closest to the impact. None of them admitted to tampering with the orbs but nevertheless he called down Professor Trelawney to get them to explain why she would not be getting the orbs back and only let them go when, in mid-rant she broke down in tears."

"That explains her refusal to teach any lessons today and why she has locked herself in her classroom," replied Snape. "And Longbottom?"

"The growing of rehmannia resulted in the blood flow being reduced in the mouse subjects that Professor Longbottom uses to test the efficacy of the plants he grows. It should only have worked if a person with magic had grown them. He put it down to the samples being confused, but congratulated the six non-wizards in his class and gave them house points."

"How like Neville Longbottom," Snape nodded.

"The staff I have mentioned all report cases which could be explained easily as mistakes or mischief. But I witnessed with my own eyes non-wizard students in my class perform transfigurations. All four had been using school wands that they had borrowed to simulate making the spell. All invoked the spell and the transfiguration, in this case water to jam tarts, were performed successfully by each of them. Mulligan, Reynolds and Fletcher all believe I made the transfiguration myself, but I did not. They performed the magic themselves." She looked down, shaking her head.

"Why so despondent, Minerva?" Snape asked. "Surely this is something in which to rejoice?" Her face, disbelief etched deeply, met the bright, cheerful one of his. "Their parents chose to send them to our school because of some deeply-held belief or interest in magic. For all we know they have magic in their ancestry and are able to access it here. Perhaps their parents suspected it anyway? We have had several wizard families who have kept their children at home because of the Ministry's decision about inclusion. Should it turn out that the students are wizards after all this may go some way pacify their resistance. Thank you, Minerva, for bringing this to my attention."

Minerva nodded and Snape saw that her relief at telling him what she had appeared bodily, as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders in a real sense.

"Now, despite your protestations about commitment to your students may I insist that you take leave to rest today?" Minerva McGonagall closed her mouth, for that was indeed what she was about to do. "I would prefer my Transfiguration teacher, Head of House and deputy head to be able to serve me tomorrow, rather than joining those students still in the hospital wing. And we may discuss your apparent findings when you are refreshed."

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"Come on, mate!" Septimus pulled at Julian's curtains. "It's time to get up!"

A groan from the bed behind the four-poster curtains told him that his friend was close to being awake. Not that Julian was a morning person, but he'd tried to insist that Julian rest, not feeling his best with a cold and a cough, but Julian had insisted Septimus wake him for breakfast so they could go down to the quidditch pitch to watch the first game of the season.

"And watch you try out for the team," Julian had added as they sat in the common room, warming themselves by the fire as the cool autumn evening began to turn chilly.

"We're in the first year, Jules," said Septimus, shaking his head. "I'm playing in the first-year friendlies, but there's no point trying out for the Gryffindor team, no first years make the team."

"But you'll wake me up early to go though, won't you?" asked Julian quietly. "I know I can't join in myself, but I want to be part of the house, y'know?" Septimus nodded. He knew he'd feel the same if he was in Julian's position, especially with the hard time some of the non-wizards were getting. It wasn't as if Julian didn't know what he was getting into, and his stoic attitude to life and sense of humour had seen him through so far. But the cold he had, which had lasted for nearly a fortnight was getting to him; he'd missed several lessons and despite Septimus helping him catch up, knew his friend had a mountain to climb to in making up for what he'd missed and understand it. Magic was, in effect, like a second language and all the more difficult to learn if one was feeling under the weather.

"That's not entirely true, what you've just said." Both boys had turned to see the face of Rufus Lestrange. "There has been a Gryffindor first year on the team."

"Oh yeah?" Julian smiled, his tone potent with a ready comeback should Rufus say something idiotic.

"Who was it, Rufus?" asked Septimus. He wanted to know, and knew that Rufus would probably go without telling them anything should Julian say something witty, which appeared to confuse the boy.

"Harry Potter," he said simply, before continuing his journey between the stairs from the dormitories to the alcove of the common room where several books were shelved. They watched him sit down, pull out his portable pensieve, connect the external earphones before selecting a book and turning over its pages.

"Harry Potter?" asked Julian. "Is he related to Sam Potter?"

"He's Sam's older brother. He works for the Ministry." He paused momentarily, before adding, "Mum wrote that book about him." Julian nodded but said nothing. Septimus had told him about his mother's ventures into authorship and he knew that he was a little sensitive about it." He glanced over to Rufus, who didn't actually appear to be reading the book, and though the central hemisphere of the pensieve was exposed to he could plug in his earphones, it wasn't glowing, as they did when they were on and Septimus wondered where the music Remus was tapping his foot to was actually coming from.

"But still," said Julian, as he pulled his blanket closer to him, "he was a first year that got on the team. It was a sentence that he repeated to Septimus as they got ready to go down to breakfast.

"That was a fluke, it has to be," said Septimus as they made their way through the tunnel towards the Fat Lady's portrait before swinging it aside much to the chagrin of the subject, who wondered piteously how often she would be moved that morning. She was right: the corridor was already busy with students milling about from several houses.

"The Great Hall'll be busy – atchoo!" Julian bent his head and covered his face with his hand. "Sorry, Sep," he said as Septimus stopped. "I can't wait for this bloody cold to go – I got a sniffle when I was in Weymouth, I just never thought it would last this long.

"'s all right, Jules," said Septimus sympathetically as they continued to walk towards the Great Hall. "Is it pointless of me asking you to go back to bed?"

"Yes," his friend replied firmly. "I mean, you might be right; the odds of a first year getting into the Gryffindor team might be low, but you don't expect me to miss you playing in your first game, do you?"

They ate breakfast quickly. As Septimus expected the Great Hall was quite full; he often ate breakfast at the weekends early, as did Julian, or rather, he did before he'd contracted his illness: Septimus supposed it was because they were used to getting up early at weekends to go out looking for beasts big and small, and it was no different here. They'd managed to explore some of the grounds, though the Forest was out of bounds, much to their disappointment

Around them, as breakfast appeared under cloches on the long tables students began to sit, congratulating one another, goading other houses and generally getting into a competitive mood. Like he and Julian, they were already dressed in kit or were donning house colours. Some had furled up banners ready to hold them up, to cheer for their players and to change the wording so as to simultaneously insult the opposition when Madam Hooch or other teachers weren't looking. All four houses were fielding first year teams, as was tradition on the opening game of the year, as a prelude and, as tradition dictated, they played with the match set of quidditch balls for the only time in the year. In the late afternoon the first of the house games would be played and the second the next day.

At around lunchtime final trials for teams would be offered and, theoretically, first years could put themselves up for their house teams with other last-minute hopefuls. But as the students knew, from anecdote and tradition gone before, first years who were arrogant or foolish enough to try out never got in. Almost never. Septimus's mind drifted to Sam's older brother. How had Harry done it? Sam was good at flying, but he wasn't on the team. He'd never mentioned Harry though. But it must have been about twenty years before.

"Eat up, Sep, or we'll never, a-hm, get a seat!" Julian glugged back his orange juice before getting to his feet. They passed several other Gryffindors tucking into breakfast, by Darren Black, whose head was buried in a quidditch magazine; Rufus Lestrange, who was softly drumming a beat with his index and middle fingers, this time absent of any outer media whatsoever.

"Weird," said Julian, shaking his head as he tapped the side of it before looking at his friend as they reached the Great Hall's doors, looking around at the scenery and weather. "It looks like we're going to have a nice day for it." Septimus nodded. A few clouds in the sky skirting behind the lofty mountains, sun dappling their surface. Clear but with a chill to the air, making one want to skim the air on a broom, race fast and feel it in his hair. Good quidditch weather.

"Have you heard about your dad recently?" asked Julian conversationally. "It's great news, isn't it, that the wizard he was with has woken up." Septimus nodded. He knew his friend was only trying to make him feel better but, knowing what he shouldn't about his father's condition, that he had been bitten by a vampire and Sirius Black had been bitten by a werewolf, he knew that Sirius's prognosis was far better than that of his father.

"Yes," Septimus nodded.

"Perhaps Professor Snape can help," Julian continued, taking the winding steps down to the lower ground, where the flat area of land before the Forest's forbidden paths began, home to the school's pitch. Around them other students were surging, coming in threes and fours, the noise of their conversations, giggling, laughing, general chatter, filling the air. "I mean, he was the one who told you about your dad's friend. He's a great wizard, Professor Snape is. He's done _loads_!"

"Yes." Septimus didn't want to talk. He didn't want to think of his father, not at the moment. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say that would change the situation. Even writing to his mother and sending her a birthday card hadn't helped his feelings of helplessness as far as his father was concerned. Septimus even felt bad for feeling grateful that Professor Snape had not offered to take him to St. Mungo's – being there, seeing his dad lying there, so ill, made it seem all the worse.

Julian looked at him. He'd seen that expression before etched into his friend's youthful features. When Septimus had told him he had to stay with his father and uncle which is why he was new to the primary school; when he'd confided in his new found friend that his mother had worked for the wizards and had left to work in Norway; when he'd told him that his father had been injured. Even when he'd made the trip over to the Scott house to tell him that his mother was back…Septimus's expression had been one of overt concern, as if he could scarce believe his mother had come back. Julian knew the best for his friend was to change the subject.

"So, which teams are up first?"

It wasn't a question that Septimus could answer; indeed, no-one seemed to know and it was a fertile topic of conversation between the two of them as they descended the steps that led to the quidditch pitch. Around them other students surged, they too wishing to know the order of the day. The commentator box doubled as a noticeboard on the outside of pitch and he and Julian pushed their way through the crowd to where other Gryffindor students were standing.

"Oh, come on!" yelled a second year student, Olly Franklin, across the crowd. "We wanna know who's playin'"

"Wait on!" yelled Martin Horner from up in the box. "Bobby's just getting his wand sorted…" he glanced back over his shoulder, whispering something to his co-commentator before continuing, "right, he's got it…no…"

"'c'mon Carter, get your act together!" yelled someone.

"All right!" roared the voice of the unseen Bobby Carter. "I'm trying to read this handwriting! OK…here goes…"

Septimus and Julian huddled closer as the crowd surged forward and they craned their next to read the words glowing orange on the banner-cloth that hung across the commentator's tower.

"We're on second, straight after Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Ravenclaw." Septimus looked around, noticing the first years whom they knew from lessons staring at the banner too. "Be great if we can win," he added as they strode into the arena. "Shame we have to use school brooms, though."

"Tradition," replied Julian through a sniffle. "But I've seen you fly, Septimus. You're not too bad."

"Cheers, mate," said Septimus as they walked to the players' area: it was only now that the gravity of the situation was beginning to dawn. He was going to be playing on behalf of his house in front of the whole school. And it was only the evening before that he found out that he couldn't use his beloved Lightningshot but would have a school Cleansweep.

The Hufflepuff/Slytherin game didn't last long. With shoulder-to-shoulder-packed stands, people holding scarves, cloaks and banners and cheering with all their might a sea of yellow and black emblazoned with badgers fought their peripheral borders with the green and silver moving mass that were the Slytherin students. It had taken less than an hour for Hufflepuff to win 275 to 100 and, from his vantage point in the players' area Septimus saw the yellow and black mass erupt into cheers, their badgers barking magically with excitement. By contrast the snakes from the Slytherin fans hissed their disapproval. Whichever house won between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw would face the might of Hufflepuff, for their victory was hardly surprising.

As the second-playing teams were called out, assembling in the centre of the pitch opposite one another a dead weight in his stomach made Septimus feel as if his feet were dragging through the turf. The wait had been agonising enough, watching the first years from the other houses flit and fight for every point but now, as a chaser, with the quaffle fighting to free itself from its chest, he felt positively ill.

Behind them the crowd roared as the two teams faced one another. What happened then, from the moment Madam Hooch opened the chest containing the feverishly anxious balls to be free to the end of the match Septimus would never quite be able to remember the details. Flying high on a broom picked from the school's aged collection he focused wholly on the game, gold and red patches streaking past him to the left and, as he fought to gain supremacy of the ball from Robbie Dawkins, dark blue on the right.

He swooped, flying under as Robbie tried to pass the quaffle to Emeeleah Gibson. On the under-pass Septimus swooped between them, arm out. A cheer went up as he grabbed it, curling his arm around it and tucking it under his arm. The goal wasn't in sight though; banners shielded his view and Septimus realised he was facing the longside of the pitch and, on his tail Emeeleah and Robbie. He looked around, trying not to lose his balance on the broom or fly into the cloth that was coming increasingly near. Below, hundreds of faces, eyes on him, waited for his move. Septimus pulled the broom up, to almost vertical to miss the banners but he still couldn't see Rachel Fletcher, the other chaser.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the tail of a broom. Trying not to loop-the-loop Septimus tried to level off and turn, the momentum throwing him to the right. He grabbed the neck of the broom with his left hand, the quaffle easing itself towards the back-end of his grip. He tried to hold onto both. _ Was_ it Rachel behind him? A split second and a decision had to be made. He threw it. A cheer went up again and Rachel whizzed underneath him with Robbie and Emeeleah on her tail. It had been! But the game wasn't won yet. Beneath them were the seekers, Thomas Grant of Gryffindor right up on Gary Fowler's tail, waiting for the Ravenclaw seeker to make the tiniest of mistakes. He looped round, looking for Rachel, knowing that he would be needed for there had been no call of points for either team.

Darting past the stand he saw that Rachel indeed needed help. Both chasers were on his tail and it had not helped that the Ravenclaw bludger had flown so close that she was now at the Gryffindor end of the pitch. How she threw the ball to Septimus he would never know but as it flew over the heads of the Ravenclaw seekers just as they both went for it, brooms colliding and sending them spiralling to earth. Septimus grasped the quaffle with both hands before grasping the broom handle with one hand and trying to steer the broom away from the goals. He didn't quite manage it though; as he slipped between the gap between two the right-hand and central goals he lost his grip on the quaffle and it went hurtling through the central goal.

"Ten points to Ravenclaw!" Bobby Carter's voice echoed around the stadium, followed by deep groans from the Gryffindor side. In contrast the cheers from Ravenclaw erupted, but the game continued so quickly that Septimus barely had time to think about what had happened. High above this time the snitch was in Tom Grant's reach. Septimus looked for where the quaffle was, back in play at the Gryffindor end. Looking between Rachel's battle with the two chasers again he glanced down to where the battle between the seekers was going on. He dived. If Tom could catch the golden snitch then his misdemeanour would be chalked up to an accident on the backdrop of Gryffindor victory.

"…and…what is Septimus Lupin doing?"

"..it looks as if he's trying to catch the snitch himself…!"

"…the last time a snitchnip happened at Hedgewards was in 1488 in the closing match of the year, between Slytherin and Ravenclaw, the beater, Henry Bolton, catching the snitch accidentally as it got lodged in his ear…"

The crowd roared. That wasn't Septimus's intention. Well, if he'd have thought about it, he would have thought that it wasn't his intention, but he wouldn't know what his intention was…

Diving past them to the right he skimmed close to the crowd. Both seekers swerved, Tom Grant more so, but he still seemed to be in control of the game as far as the snitch was concerned. Septimus was having his own problems; the broom seemed to be hard to control. It was in a spiral, twisting towards the ground and try as he might he could not get it horizontal. He leaned back and, as he did so, noticed that there was someone hanging over the edge of the stand. Septimus looked up, just in time to see the face of Ariella Blewitt twisted in horror as she fell towards him. He leaned forward, leaning with all his might against the handle of the broom. It tilted, and he managed to gain purchase with his knees just before he hit the ground. Leaning to the right Septimus brought the broom to a stop and looked up. Ariella was still falling. He bent his knees and jumped, launching the broom back into the air. Above him the match was going on, but Ariella was close to the ground herself.

The crowd gasped, their attention now not on the match but the falling Ravenclaw girl. Septimus grasped at her cloak, but it came away in his hand and, when he swooped around for another try realised it was too late, she was going to hit the ground. Without thinking, he let go of the broom with his knees. The momentum of the stick continued as he plunged to the ground. He knew about falling, out of trees, out of his bedroom window when he'd tried to get Mervyn into his cage from the windowsill. The broom raced away, Ariella gripping it while Septimus landed on his back, the sky and the peripheral of the pitch in his fading eyesight.

When he came round he realised Julian was telling him what a stupid sod he had been, and what had he thought he was doing? The rest of the team was surrounding him too and, next to Julian, Madam Hooch calling him by surname, thanking Merlin that he'd come round when he tried to sit up.

"What the hell were you thinking, Sep?" asked Julian when, as his friend helped him stagger from the pitch, having been given a clean bill of health and told his bruises would heal, and they made their way outside the pitch as they waited for the scores.

"I suppose it won't matter much if I'm out of it," said Septimus, slumping onto a rock, nursing his shoulder. "It should be a good match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff this afternoon, before the proper match."

"What do you mean?" asked Julian, confused. "Didn't you hear what Horner and Carter were saying? No, you were unconscious," he added, shaking his head. "We won! Tom caught the snitch, which he wouldn't have, by the way, if you hadn't done, well, whatever you did." Septimus shook his head.

"I don't know what I was doing, to be honest. I should have been up with Rachel, but…it just seemed that, if Tom did catch the snitch it'd make up for what I managed to do."

"He-he!" chuckled Julian, nudging Septimus before giving him a look of sympathy when he winced. "That'll be one for the history books. First-year opening game and Septimus Lupin scores an own-goal!"

"And then – " Septimus broke off, his attention taken by the figures approaching them.

"And what do you think that was, Lupin?" Before then Fraser Blewitt stood, bending his large frame over the two. "Aerobatics? Think you're a Red Arrow?" Septimus said nothing, but something triggered in his mind.

"Hope you don't think you're going to try out for the team? You know first years never get in."

"It's been known before," retorted Julian. "So, why don't you want him trying out for Gryffindor? Think he'll be a threat to you, Blewitt?" The captain of the Ravenclaw team growled under his breath and stood over them.

"Oh, here goes the non-wizard, never even heard of quidditch a month ago and now an expert! _Mis_guided." Septimus opened his mouth to say something but Julian spoke instead.

"You should be grateful! It was your sister who was falling out of the stands. You should be thanking Septimus for helping her." Glowering between both of them Septimus closed his eyes for a second, picturing the moment when he realised that Ariella was falling. And behind her…he opened them. The faces were the same, same expression, of snarling anger.

"And you, Lupin, letting this muggle speak for you."

Around them gasps, as the growing crowd of spectators responded to the insult. Julian said nothing – he was barely familiar with the term – but for those that were it was shocking.

"Don't let the ministry hear you say that," Septimus said, narrowing his eyes. Could it really be that Fraser was behind his sister when she fell? Who knew? He'd had concussion. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him.

"Don't think your uncle can save you, Lupin," he snarled. "Look at what non-wizards have done for you. And you choose to be friends with mis – "

"Mis – ?" asked Septimus.

"This," Fraser corrected deliberately. "You think you're so untouchable...your beloved uncle. And you think your parents can help you," he sneered at Septimus, "how on earth would that happen? Your dad's as good as dead and your mum's crazy, everyone knows it." He shook his head mockingly.

"It's wizards that have done for him," said a voice behind Fraser before Septimus could think of a reply. "Conjurists." He turned. Darren Black looked up at the older student. "And, why shouldn't he try out for Gryffindor?"

"Clear off, Black," Fraser growled, bearing his frame down on him. Julian looked at Septimus, frowning a little. Darren Black talking back to a seventh-year? For them?

And, at once, before Septimus could figure what was about to happen Darren Black and Fraser Blewitt were facing one another a stretch of open ground between them, wands aloft.

"And you, a good, decent wizard from an honourable family, would fight me over this – " Septimus frowned, for it wasn't the situation that Fraser seemed to be talking about – he'd pointed to Julian – "…this misborn?" Not only gasps now but calls for staff to attend, the announcement coming over the tannoy of the commentator tower. He looked at his friend, but his face was impassive. Septimus knew that Julian was not bothered by that insult either, but the crowd, almost all of whom were wizards, muttered in shock and horror at the Ravenclaw quidditch captain's vile words.

But before either boy could attack one another between them stood Professor Snape. Wands were lowered quickly but neither of them looked away.

"Black, Blewitt, my office, now. You too, Swales," he added to Fraser Blewitt's friend who seemed to be hovering by the boy. "Septimus Lupin," he continued, his tone a little softer. "Great game, I thought. I would like to discuss the details with you later this afternoon. Perhaps Mr. Scott could accompany you?"

And with that, both would-be duellists in tow Darren Black looked over his shoulder in Septimus's direction, nodding at him as the headmaster made his way back towards the castle.


	38. Ambition above Reason

Returning from the owlery after dinner Septimus thought about the letter he had sent off with a school owl to his mother. Carefully treading down the steps for, though it was only half past six already the light was growing dim. He thought about his letter, amiable enough, where he had told her about his excitement and fear, in equal proportions, of playing for Gryffndor in the pre-match game, how he had managed the own-goal and tried his best to help the seeker take the snitch, "…because the game is awfully unfair; it's just about a fight between seekers; it doesn't matter what the beaters and chasers do because you have to score ten goals to equal the catching of the snitch…"

Looking up to the castle he pushed his feet down on the steps, trying to put out of his mind the meeting to which he had been summoned that evening giving his side of the incident that afternoon. Professor McGonagall hadn't seemed that pleased with him when she gave him the message, but it could be because of how he had performed on behalf of Gryffindor. Despite winning, Gryffindor lost to Hufflepuff 220 to 60 in the final of the first-year games giving the badgers their eleventh first-year game victory in a row. Septimus was sure that, had he been allowed to play as he had asked (his request denied by Madam Hooch) they may have had a better chance of winning.

The lights twinkled out through the windows of the castle. Students were celebrating, commiserating, planning, studying…probably the majority were looking forward to the house match that was to be played between Gryffindor and Slytherin the next day. Ravenclaw had gone on to beat Hufflepuff that afternoon and the match between them and the winner of the game the next day would take place in a month's time.

"…and I hope you have a great birthday, mum," he'd written, enclosing a tiny vial of perfume which could be diluted and made to match any perfume the person wanted. He'd managed to sneak off to Boutes when his mum had been distracted in Flourish and Blotts in the summer and, using the little pocket money he had buy the smallest size of "AnySmell" that they had. Even then, it cost him practically everything he had. But it was worth it. Would have been, at any rate. He knew he would have to send it by owl but, following Cecilia's return Septimus hadn't expected that he would be owling it to Durmstrang again. She would be surprised, Septimus knew, but also very pleased that he'd remembered: he remembered so many times when his dad had taken his mother's, "…you don't need to buy me anything…don't worry about a card, save the money…" at face value and indeed had so often given her nothing.

He'd even included a sentence telling his mum how he knew he wouldn't hear the end of the fact he'd managed an own goal and, in the unique words of Rufus Lestrange who he and Julian could not avoid sitting next to that afternoon, been "the best worst chaser" in centuries.

Climbing the stairs that (hopefully) led to the Gryffindor common room (and not the third floor Room of Horrors that he and Julian had encountered in their second week at Hedgewards) Septimus thought about what Darren had done after being led away with Professor Snape and Fraser Blewitt. Why had this boy, who had actively avoided him since they had shared a carriage on the Hedgewards Express, who had never spoken a word to him, both defended him and acknowledged him? What could have made him step in? Was he angry at Blewitt for some reason and used the opportunity to have a go back at the older boy? Surely there were better opportunities than at the quidditch match.

As he rounded the corner, just before he came crashing into Professor McGonagall. He stepped back, blinking a couple of times as he felt his face flush – by rights he should be in the common room and, by the look on the witch's face he knew e was bound to be in trouble. The image that had been appearing in his mind every so often, melted from his mind as he waited to hear what his head of house would say about his misdemeanour and, more importantly, how many points it would cost Gryffindor.

"Master Lupin, there you are!" She tutted as she looked back from where she had come, namely the portrait of the Fat Lady. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"I – "

"The headmaster wishes to see you," McGonagall continued, interrupting him as she stepped past him, "and you're late. Well, what are you waiting for?" Septimus blinked – she wasn't about to reprimand him? – before making his tired legs follow her obediently.

"And I must say, Septimus Lupin, while I approve of your sentiment of helping your team-mate, your methods were – " she inhaled sharply through her nose, " – rash."

They continued the rest of the way to the foot of the stairs up which Septimus had climbed before which led to the headmaster's office.

"And once you have spoken to Professor Snape," McGonagall turned as abruptly as she began talking, "you must return to the dormitory with _no delay_. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Professor," replied Septimus as he looked up the spiral as far as the steps would go as the conversation that would soon take place. Minutes later, standing on the other side of the door, wondering what he would be asked, Septimus thought again about Ariella, falling as she had done from the quidditch stand. As the door opened Septimus was amazed to see the face of her brother, bent into the same frown as he remembered glaring back at him. Septimus looked to one side to see Darren Black standing there and, between then, Professor Snape.

"Y…you wanted to see me?"

"Ah yes. Come in." Tentatively, mainly because of his injuries, Septimus crossed the oak floor, aware that Fraser Blewitt's stare was boring into the side of his skull. "You may go, Mister Blewitt," Snape added. Septimus refused to look at him but he could feel the glare that the other boy was throwing in his direction. A few moments later and he heard the door of the office close behind him and he gave an outward sigh of relief.

"Mister Lupin," began Snape, looking at Septimus carefully. "I was intrigued to see your performance at the match, an interesting technique. I am sure Tom Grant was grateful for your assistance." He smiled, glancing at Darren Black. "And I am sorry to have brought you from resting your head and your legs – your landing was less than comfortable. Perhaps if you had been in a position to participate in the latter game Gryffindor may well have won." He paused, glancing over to Darren again. Septimus looked at him too. "However it is post-match events which I am concerned. Both Mister Black and Mister Blewitt have been in isolation since this afternoon's…conflict of opinion – as you must appreciate I have to take accusations of bigotry and violence with utmost seriousness. So I ask you, please take me through the events that you remember after your fall? Most specifically when you were with your friend Mister Scott?" Septimus looked at Darren again, who was now staring at the floor.

"I know Julian wasn't upset by what Fraser Blewitt said," Septimus began somewhat awkwardly. "Er, I mean, he should have been, but he wasn't. He was making sure I was OK but Blewitt came over and started ranting at me. To be honest, I wasn't sure exactly what he was going on about. First he called Julian a muggle, then Darren – " he stopped as he saw Darren stare at him.

" – he stuck up for me and Julian," he continued, looking back at Darren Black. Had it not been for him he was sure it would have been a lot worse. "He, er, mentioned the possibility that, er, Fraser knew a lot about Conjurists. And I'm glad he did," Septimus added quickly, knowing that what he'd said so far had probably got the boy into trouble, "for I'm sure Fraser was going to curse me. And then, Fraser called Julian m – " Septimus stopped and looked down. It was the rudest, most dishonourable word Septimus knew and he couldn't bring himself to repeat it.

"M – ?"

"He called him misborn." Septimus jerked his head and looked at Darren. The boy was now looking at the headmaster – _he_ was not afraid to say the word.

"Is this true?" Professor Snape looked at Septimus, waiting for his response.

"Yes, headmaster," replied Septimus, relieved.

"Thank you, Mister Black." Professor Snape looked down at the boy. "You may return to your dormitory. I will see you here after breakfast for your continued isolation." Septimus watched Darren turn, nodding once to Septimus as he did, before pacing over the floor to the door. He watched him open the door before descending the steps and out of sight.

"An unfortunate business," concluded Professor Snape once Septimus had looked back to him. "Both students have been punished for their threats made with wand, as well as their slanderous comments. You understand, Septimus, that I needed your testimony before I could be sure of the truth?" Septimus stared back at him, unable to think of anything to say. Was there anything to say? All he'd done was said what had happened.

"You said what had happened," Snape repeated, as if following Septimus's internal commentary. "Both students had admitted the wand-threats but neither could bring themselves to tell me what they had said to one another.

"I'm sure you could have asked any student," replied Septimus. "Plenty were there to hear what Darren and Fraser said.

"I could," replied Snape, folding his arms and leaning back on his desk in a more casual manner, "but then I would not have had the pleasure of congratulating you on your daring feat in your first quidditch match. I'm sure your father would have been proud. He was a pretty good player himself, him and Sirius Black. I know that Darren feels terrible about what happened to his uncle," he added. Septimus blinked as events slowly pieced themselves together, like a jigsaw puzzle. Darren felt bad about Sirius being attacked, and he and his father had been attacked at a suspected conjurist house by illegal half-breeds that shouldn't have been there. He'd heard what Fraser Blewitt had said to him about his father…so that's why he stepped in. Of course! It made perfect sense. Septimus made a mental note to thank Darren when he got back to the common room.

"I will have to speak to your friend, Mister Scott, to see if he wishes to press charges against Mister Blewitt. As a term of discriminatory abuse against non-wizards is, of course, against the law. As for Mister Black, he has been warned to keep accusations of Conjurism out of conversation, inflammatory that it is."

"Why?" Septimus heard himself saying. "Er, I mean, begging your pardon, some wizards think that being Conjurists is a good thing." He watched as Snape unfolded his arms before refolding them and looking keenly at Septimus.

"Yes, they do indeed," replied Snape. "And it is such an attitude, pride in division, that is so detrimental, at least to the wellbeing of the students in my care."

"But not everyone thinks that," Septimus pressed. "So what Darren said probably wasn't bad, he might just have been trying to describe Fraser Blewitt, and Fraser might have taken it as a compliment." His sudden outburst amazed even himself and Septimus was even more awaed when Snape began to laugh.

"Oh! Your attempt to allay the punishment of Mister Black is admirable, Mister Lupin. He is still in trouble, I'm afraid." He smiled at Septimus. "How like your mother you are. She could never bear an injustice. Well, I'm sure you'll have plenty to say to Mister Black once you return to your common room, but I say again I will not tolerate the use of such a term in this school. Hedgewards is inclusive now, we do not select on the basis of magical ability, nor have we ever. Should I ever wish to turn us into the British equivalent of Durmstrang I would certainly do just that. Conjurists say different," Snape added. "They say perhaps we should train only the best, like academically only the best non-wizard minds become doctors. Would you wish for someone less talented or committed to train in the field, just to say you've given them the opportunity, someone who was not as quick in diagnosis or the correct course of action? Sometimes there is only room for the best," Snape added. Septimus paused. So there was a need to separate wizards from non-wizards. Is this what the headmaster was telling him?

"Sir, do you think that that is what Hedgewards should be like?"

His question hung in the air for a moment and Septimus looked down, shuffling his feet, instantly regretting the question. Snape exhaled heavily and glared at Septimus who would have been quite happy at that moment for the ground beneath his feet to have swallowed him up whole and for it to have closed above his head. As it had done neither he was left to face down the heavy, icy stare of his headmaster.

"It is irrelevant what I think," Snape said at length, "nor you, or any of my staff or students. We are meant to be inclusive and that's what we are. Which is why I have punished both students for their actions and their words. But the question remains that there is something to be said for exclusivity. One must never consider that there is only one right path. The manner in which some wizards decide to portray this notion, and by what means they are influenced is something which I know is of great concern, especially to you uncle. Indeed, I do hope that there will be a time that your Uncle Kay does not regret the nationalising of all schools. Now," he said, Professor Snape's face brightening. "I understand that Professor McGonagall wishes you to return immediately to the Gryffindor common room _without delay_."

Once Septimus Lupin had left Severus Snape folded his arms before striding over to the hearth beneath the pictures of the headmasters. Most were slumbering in their frames, or sharing with one another playing games of Wizard Chess, or the like. One however, namely Aberforth Dumbledore, watched his successor with interest as he cast his hand in the direction of the hearth, making the embers dance with green flame.

"Snape, you wanted to see me?" In the flames the head of Aberforth's other successor. Caelius Lupin, his face impassive as he waited for Severus Snape to continue.

"You got my owl, I assume? I sent it as "urgent"."

"You assume correctly. And I am concerned, Snape, that you could not handle the misdemeanours of your students as you promised you would." Severus paused, trying not to let his irritation at the criticism of his leadership by one of the most outwardly self-assured wizards show. Instead he took a step back and folded his arms.

"Indeed, I am dealing with their misdemeanours in line with school policy. However it is not the behaviour policy of the school with which I furnished you. It is the nature of the incident that I intended to convey – perhaps my letter was not succinct enough?"

"You spoke about Fraser Blewitt and Darren Black."

"I have yet to ask Julian Scott, to whom Blewitt addressed as a muggle and misborn. Black was merely in the wrong place and alluded to the possibility that Blewitt has connections with conjurists. It was your nephew, Septimus, who confirmed the details."

"Septimus?" Caelius's tone changed ever so slightly. "How is he involved?"

"He crashed during the second tournament of the year, the first-year house game while trying to save the life of a fellow student. It was to whom Blewitt chose to abuse at first." This time the pause came from Caelius's end and, not for the first time Aberforth Dumbledore wondered, from his beframed position above them, whether he should have split the Head of the Reciprocator role between them.

"Has Septimus been fighting? What caused the confrontation?" Concern. This time Snape felt he had the upper hand, though did not take any pleasure in it, unlike Caelius, he was certain, when the tables were turned.

"Septimus was in the match, a chaser for Gryffindor. I believe your brother would be proud. He decided to, shall we say, use his initiative to bring the first years to victory however his selflessness in attempting to assist a fellow student, namely Fraser Blewitt's sister, caused the conflict. Blewitt then turned on Julian Scott, with Darren Black intervening. I am certain that I outlined this in my owl?"

"Yes, yes," nodded Caelius dismissively and Severus thought he could see a glimpse of parchment in the foreground of the floo connection, as if his opposite number was just now furnishing himself with the details of the owl. "Of course." He looked back at Severus Snape. "If you decide that the boy's actions constitute a breach of law, and the wounded party wishes to press charges then do indeed contact me in the morning and I will organise for an Auror to collect him. Now, if you excuse me, I have important work with the Reciprocators tonight. They have a difficult night ahead of them."

"Indeed."

"As every night." A pause, silence hung between them for a moment and, for a moment, only the silent flickering of the green flames from the floo connection moved. When neither of them spoke Caelius added, "there is nothing else that Septimus has done? No punishment?"

"No, indeed, for he has done nothing wrong, only played the game of quidditch in a unique but successful manner." The flames died as Caelius's face faded. Severus Snape rose and made his way towards his desk. Who did he think he was? Didn't the wizard know that he, Snape, knew full well what the Reciprocators were up against, hence his prompt reporting of the actions of Fraser Blewitt who, as a sixth year, really should have known better. He knew they were at least two wizards down, even though one was now conscious, thanks to him. What did he know of Hedgewards life, the day-to-day operation of the school, not least encumbered with the changes foisted upon them by Lupin Senior himself? Because, once the students were in bed and the staff on shift had been briefed he would himself be tirelessly working on a potion destined, in theory, for his brother.

He walked to the picture of Aberforth. Not that there was much hope. The ingredients were scarce, no-one had ever postulated let alone explored an antidote to the vampire's bite so where to start, or at least continue, was merely informed guesswork.

"You never had this trouble, I'm guessing." Severus nodded to his predecessor as he made his way up the stairs to his book- and vial-lined chamber, the large cauldron in the middle of the circular table gleaming in the candle-light. Aberforth watched him go.

"Don't you believe it."

88888888

In the living room of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place James Potter returned carrying a chipped teapot out of which he had scoured the nargles and cleaned it in the kitchen with five spells. Perhaps he should have used another since the look that Sturgis Podmore was giving the teapot made him wonder why he'd bothered.

"I only found two – look, it's as clean as I've ever seen it, and I've been on the receiving end of tea from it being the last Reciprocator back." He grasped the lid and removed it before pushing it in Sturgis's direction. "Look!"

"Really, I don't want a tea," said Sturgis, taking up the papers again which detailed which parts of the country were being covered by which Reciprocator-Auror groups that night. It wasn't as if those people left behind at Grimmauld Place had their feet up, however: their presence was a lifeline for any wizard in difficulty – those who remained had the vital role of deciding what assistance they may need: back-up from a different team; strategic withdrawal or reinforcement in numbers by the spare Reciprocator left behind, in this case an exceedingly miffed James Potter who was scrutinising the inside of the teapot wondering why Sturgis would still refuse tea from it.

"I wish Molly were here," muttered James, putting down the pot on the table before glancing over the duties list for that evening.

"Where is she?" Sturgis asked conversationally. Though not on shift that evening it was rare to find Mr and Mrs Potter out of each others' company.

"She's gone to St. Mungo's to visit Sirius. To be honest, she's not been herself recently." James shook her head. "Harry and Hermione, now that's a bit unsettling, I know."

"Unsettling?" Sturgis Podmore looked up from the duty rota he was attempting to compile for two evenings' time and frowned. "Hermione Granger is a lovely girl."

"Yes," agreed James. "But them getting married, it all seems so sudden. I mean, we did it quite quickly, and we knew each other from school…we got married much younger than they are now…I pointed all this out to her…and then there's Henrietta. That came as a big shock to us all – " Sturgis nodded, still looking at his papers, " – and what with Hermione being called to give evidence in Strasbourg…" James put down the teapot. "Hen…she's…_she was_…one of us…I dunno. I just wish it'd go back to how things were, when the Conjurist threat just wasn't there. It's caused no end of problems and concerns, it really has. Sirius knows…he seems pretty gutted to be honest. I think that's why Molly visits him, they reminisce…he's awake, but Remus is still in a sorry state."

"There's been no change in him?"

"None that we know. Severus is on the case though, and we couldn't ask for a better mind."

"How's Sam doing?" asked Sturgis, leaning back in the armchair before taking up the teapot that James claimed to have cleaned. "He wants to join the Ministry?"

"That's his plan, yes. And to be a Reciprocator too. So much ambition, much more than Harry. I think he must get that from Lily. She's so pleased, and yet…" Waving his hand across the pot. Steam effused from its spout and the gap between the lid. "Tea?" A quick look to one side from Sturgis then a nod. James waved his hand again, this time over the low table near the settee. A pair of mugs appeared which had been in Grimmauld Place's kitchen cupboards. He poured the tea before conjuring a small milk jug and sugar bowl.

"It'll be good to see Sirius soon," James continued conversationally as Sturgis leaned back in his chair having now put down the Reciprocator schedule. "It's been nearly three months since he and Remus went out that day."

"We've survived, though," said Sturgis. "I won't say, "thanks to Caelius", but he has organised us. It's been quiet without Sirius," he added, taking a sip of tea. "I should take the trouble to see them."

"With any luck, he may be able to come home. You'll see him enough then, and you know what he's like: he won't take "no" for an answer when it comes to being involved in Reciprocator duties, mark my words. No matter what my dear wife has to say." He glanced at the rota. It wouldn't be long until Kingsley got back now…he was paired with Mick Mullen…he wondered what it was like out there tonight. Things were slowly getting more difficult for the groups that went out now. Even the laid-back Sirius would find it difficult to laugh off the attacks that were now taking place in the manner that he had tried to shake off his injuries and chronic disease with which he was now inflicted.

And the situation was concerning, even to him. Just before the summer holidays he was all for Sam wanting to take a job in the ministry. He had the skill, he had the intellect and people-skills, it was true. But the attacks by Conjurists were growing in number and ferocity…some nights they would come back, exhausted, having been kept on their toes by attacks on non-wizard and ministerial buildings co-ordinated by their use of pensieves. One minute there would be no-one in the town's streets at two o'clock in the morning and then suddenly you and the two aurors with you would be surrounded by a dozen or more Conjurists bent on vandalism, graffiti, arson…

At least Caelius was pleased. The haul of information he was getting from the use of pensieves had made for more arrests after the event. Their data was not regulated by law and as such Caelius had made provision to access information that came up with key phrases and words, especially if the messages had originated in towns where recent violence and vandalism had taken place.

"What do you think about pensieves, Sturgis? You like technology." Sturgus looked at James over his teacup.

"Never really got into them. I have one, I've got music on it which I listen to. It has potential to communicate with a lot of people at once."

"This is what they're doing," replied James. "But at least it's pleasing Caelius that he can trawl through this information. Just a pity he can't do it before we go out there. Arthur Weasley came back with his arm in such a state last time."

"I don't think it'll be long before Caelius has them banned," commented Sturgis, putting down his cup again and staring at it. It had a slight nargle-y taste. "They're causing more harm than good and we can't be maverick about it, you know Caelius."

"Indeed. Has to do it by the book," he added, putting down his cup and glancing at the clock. Nearly three. It wouldn't be long until some of the Reciprocators returned. In the absence of Lily or Molly, or any potential skill in the kitchen by Sturgis James supposed that he should attempt some sandwiches.

"It's been awfully quiet tonight," commented Sturgis as he watched James rise. James nodded, trying to quell the stillness that usually accompanied terrible news out of his mind.

88888888

"How do I look?" Hermione turned to Harry as she arrived at the steps of the European Wizengamot. She smoothed down her pencil skirt before tapping at her hair.

"Fine," said Harry, looking round. The antechamber was getting full. European ministers, workers and lawyers were gathering together in small bunches, giving one another scrolls and parchments, exchanging short dialogues before moving onto other small groups. Hermione looked at him, annoyed.

"You always say that. Come on, really, how do I look?"

"Really fine," said Harry, feeling at a loss as to what to say. "What time did you say you had to go in?"

"Ten," said Hermione, as Harry looked around again, seemingly oblivious to her exasperated roll of the eyes and tutting. She looked down at the letter again, written on dragonskin parchment with the crest of the European Parliament at the top and signed by Draco Malfoy himself. The Right Honourable Draco Malfoy, President of the European Parliament. Hermione knew that though she would defer to Draco's position she would find it difficult to get the image of his soaking wet head out of her mind, caused by two young wizards from Slytherin House on their first day at Hedgewards. "I don't know what I'm going to say though, only that, when I was here for that short time she came to my office, talked about work and the prospect of promotion before leaving again."

"Well, you should be out by ten past ten," said Harry, smiling at Hermione. She didn't smile and Harry instantly felt awkward. He knew how important this was to Hermione, to Hermione's reputation as much as anything else. Whatever she said he knew that she coveted promotion in her career and she was concerned that her summoning to an enquiry into Henrietta Edwards's death would be to her disadvantage.

"All you can say is what happened, it doesn't mean anything. Someone had to have been the last to see her, and it happened to be you."

"I know all that!" snapped Hermione. "It's just – " She stopped as more ministers appeared, this time approaching them, before walking past and into the wizengamot chamber. They were clad in dark blue, rhombus-shaped hats on their heads and, as they walked they neither looked at nor acknowledged anyone that they passed.

It wasn't long until they were called in, half an hour after ten and the nervous (if somewhat annoyed Hermione, " – can';t someone get us in on time? I hardly call this professional – "

She gave her statement, from the chair in the centre of the wizengamot, which resembled the one in the British Ministry for Magic, though larger to accommodate the large Wizengamot witches and wizards who represented not only the European Magical Law Enforcement Departments but also, by extension, a member of each country's Law Enforcement department from their ministry. Britain was, ironically, the only exception. It was part of the Magical Treaty Organisation but as far as government was concerned, operated independently, as a sovereign state.

The fact that Henrietta was missing for such a long time before she was discovered, dead at the bottom of the Rosstrappe, in the Harz Mountains, Germany, was of great concern to the Wizengamot. Character descriptions from those who had been working with her in Strasbourg told that she was a highly capable, determined and forthright witch who would not be coerced, as was being suggested by the prosecution, into being a Conjurist. Harry was shocked. He had no idea that such an accusation had ever been levelled at the late Henrietta Edwards and made a mental note to tell his mum and dad, but then instantly dismissed it – all that had been said today would be reported in the European Prophet and his parents would find out soon enough. Once they emerged from the Wizengamot chamber Hermione hugged Harry hard.

"That was horrible," she said, wiping away a tear as the Wizengamot witches and wizards filed out followed by Draco Malfoy. In contrast to the Wizengamot Draco nodded towards Harry and Hermione and Hermione smiled back, before she bent her head and buried it onto Harry's shoulder.

"That was terrible," she continued. "How can such a witch as Henrietta end up getting killed? It's murder, it has to be. She was at the wrong place at the wrong time, she had to be! She was probably spying on a Conjurist meeting!"

"Come on," said Harry, thinking about the apartment where they would be staying that night. Though the trial in terms of Hermione's role was at an end she had decided, Hermione being Hermione, that she should follow up the leads and contacts she had made on her last trip with the hope of gaining further insight into the workings of the European Parliament. Harry had agreed and already he'd invited Ron over to watch the Holland – Ukraine quidditch match.

"But I'm not sure I should go out tonight," Hermione sniffed into Harry's shoulder as the illusion of a laid-back wizards' night in evaporated from his minds' eye.

In the end though, Hermione did go out for dinner with a witch and a wizard whom she had met in July. Harry, after an afternoon of consoling had gone to the local shop to buy a few cans of butterbeer for the evening and, almost as soon as he had got back Ron had the two of them were taking it easy in front of the 3-D wide-screen television that the room had in it. Once the game had ended (Holland beating Ukraine 230 to 20) Harry and Ron chatted for a while. He told Ron about what had happened that aftetnoon.

"I think there's a connection, something that the Conjurists in Europe and those in Britain have in common. It's those pensieves. From what I can tell attacks keep happening at the same time all over the place. It's really stretching the Reciprocators and the Aurors. I wonder if it's happening in Europe too. I wonder…" Harry nodded decisively, "you know, I reckon Henrietta knew it too and she investigated."

"What makes you say that?" asked Ron, between sips from his butterbeer bottle, right leg folded on the knee of his left. "She could have been involved." Harry shook his head.

"She was one of mum and dad's best friends. She was a Reciprocator. She was dead against Conjurism."

"Ah, you say that, but she was also ambitious. Do you think she might be involved if it meant some personal leg-up?" Harry looked at Ron. He had a point. Henrietta's weakness was her narcissistic interest in her career. No-one, not even Sirius, whom she had put way down the list of priorities when it came to it, stood a chance. He changed the subject.

"Hermione's out tonight, she thinks she might be able to get some sort of promotion herself before the year's out. I do hope she's right, I could see myself living here, rent free. Hermione would be able to have the wedding she wanted 'cos we could save our rent money. We could still get married on 1st May, as she wants."

"Well," said Ron, looking round at the apartment, "there's nothing like an unbiased opinion when it comes to those things. He got to his feet.

"Where're you going?" asked Harry, confused. "There's "Match of the Day" on in a minute, and at least another beer with your name on it.

"Sorry, mate. Hermione'll be back soon, and I reckon she'll need you. From what you said she sounded a bit emotional after today."

"But that doesn't stop you staying," said Harry, confused. But Ron tapped the side of his nose.

"Other pots on the stove, Harry. You've got your woman, you can't expect others to wait around." And before Harry could say anything his friend, with his mysterious "other things to do" disapparated.

It wasn't long before Harry, having settled down to watch the match highlights between Holland and Ukraine, was joined by Hermione who, uncharacteristically, opened the bottle of butterbeer that Ron had turned down. She waited until the programme had ended, ducking as the quaffle from the game exploded from the TV screen in 3-D, only to be knocked back into play by a beater from the Ukrainian team. Once the credits were on Harry turned off the television.

"How was your evening?" he asked, smiling and waiting for Hermione to speak.

"Well, my office received a letter from your brother," she began, showing Harry the address. He peered down at the handwriting. It was indeed from Sam.

"What's he want?"

"Work experience, at the Ministry. But not just in Britain, here in Strasbourg." Her tone was a mixture of amazement and approval. "I know he wants to be an Auror, but…" she looked down at the letter again. "He'll get some good work experience here. Pierre Pfimlin said he'd take him on next summer."

"He was impressed by what you had to say last time," commented Harry. "You obviously made it clear what he needed to do to be successful. He wants to be a Reciprocator too, you know. Merlin knows he's spent enough time at Grimmauld Place to get experience. It's never been something that's appealed to me, it's mum and dad's thing, but – " Harry broke off, realising that Hermione was looking away, tears in her eyes.

"'mione, what's the matter?" She turned to him, wiping the tears away.

"It's just…today," said Hermione, clenching her fists. "I _was_ the last to see Henrietta…and then tonight, Pierre and Petra Pfimlin…they were saying how ambitious I was, they approved of my moving here, and I thought…am I just like her? Am I like Henrietta? Am I going to get myself into some sort of trouble?" She looked down and let out a sob. Harry put his hand on her shoulder.

"I mean, no-one knows what happened to her, but I think she was trying to prove something, to get some information out of the Conjurists or some other shady characters to boost her career. She was always a risk-taker." Harry nodded. "Am I going to end up like her? Dead at the bottom of a mountain gorge somewhere?" She burst into further sobs and Harry pulled her closer, letting her cry. He knew that she hadn't been looking forward to her Wizengamot appearance, and obviously being the last person to see someone before they died must be disturbing. When the sobs ebbed to sniffs, Harry leaned back and looked at her in her now red, blotchy, tear-stained face.

"You won't," he said, "and you know why?" Hermione held his gaze, waiting for the answer to the question. "Because you're having this conversation now. Because Henrietta never thought like this, she never worried. She was never concerned about things, nothing stopped her or got in her way." He pulled Hermione back close to him for another hug. "What else did you talk about tonight?"

"Hedgewards," said Hermione. "Apparently Caelius Lupin's experiment doesn't seem to be getting the support here as it's found in the Ministry at home…not that there's been outright support there either. And the latest news is that Caelius has, with Severus' Snape's approval, decided to limit the use of pensieves at Hedgewards. There's been a big attack tonight and it's been proven that the parents of one student has been sending information to the boy's pensieve about Conjurist activities. So I suppose it's just a matter of time before Caelius instigates a total ban on them. Apparently the boy called a non-wizard misborn."

"No! Really?" Harry looked shocked.

"Severus and Caelius both put it down to the easy and unlimited access to almost anything that anyone puts onto their pensieve. It's like another world is behind the pensieve, storing things up as they're waiting to be accessed. Apparently Sam told Snape about the Conjurist-thing."

"He'd better watch out," said Harry. "He might think he's doing the right thing, but...if Conjurists think nothing of setting fire to non-wizard shops with non-wizard families inside asleep they'll think nothing of attacking him in some way." He shook his head as he recalled the attacks that he and Hermione had witnessed when they had gone out for dinner for her birthday. "And your colleagues still don't mind taking him on?" Hermione smiled.

"There, now," said Harry, hoping not to sound too patronising. "And I hope you got a bit of networking done too?"

"Petra's thinking of going part-time, just temporarily. Their mother is ill and she wants to care for her. I'm thinking of putting a letter together expressing my interest. The promotion would amount to pretty much the salary I have now, but the accommodation is free, so even with your transport to London we'd be saving money." She smiled again, and Harry hugged her. Goodbye leaky pipes and overgrown garden. Goodbye damp in the kitchen and a smell that no-one could identify. Hello modern furniture, cleaning elf and 3-D television.

88888888


	39. The Prime Pensieve

Looking at the bottle of perfume on her table Cecilia imagined the face of her son in her mind, wondering what he had been up to, really up to, not just what he thought to put in his letters, at Hedgewards. She looked at the untidy handwriting and smudge, simultaneously telling him off for his presentation and sympathising with him by showing him her handwriting at his age.

He would be having so much fun, she felt sure of it. At least his friend had gone to Hedgewards with him; she'd have felt worse about him leaving for wizard school had he been alone. Jerking her head up at the creak Cecilia realised it was her bedroom door that led out onto the corridor which was open to the elements. Pulling her cardigan on Cecilia reminded herself about where he could have been, what he might be doing had he been at a different school.

Perhaps he would be isolated in a non-wizard school…his father still being unconscious and little contact with wizards. Had he been here she felt sure he would have felt isolated too. The students were integrated, granted, but there was still a lot of division, a lot of separation culminating from academic pursuits and the cut-throat competition that came with it. Though she was not intending to teach that day, for example, as it was a Sunday she knew that, should she cross between floors in the main quadrangle that separated the teachers' quarters from the classrooms there would be throngs of students watching the area a foot from the ceiling hoping that a teacher had changed their mind and decided to have a lesson.

It wasn't as if people were secretive, rather they didn't want to be bothered with one another. But, further than that, the general attitude of the teacher-researchers was that integration with non-wizards was, and would be a failure for, in their opinion, non-wizards were inherently lazy, stupid and antisocial and their mixing with wizard students would sully them, leaving them open to bad habits.

Cecilia recalled the words now, written down in Felix Felixssohn's research notes. "Recommend eradication," were the words at the end. Part of her was shocked to the core, that such emotionless words had been used in an academic report about a group of people, one that she belonged to. Another part of Cecilia wasn't surprised, though, when she thought about it: such was the manner of everyone at Durmstrang. All of their research was controversial, but was never intended to be shared with anyone, not least because it may then be used by wizards for purposes that the researchers, as a whole, would disapprove.

She looked down at the letter she had written to Caelius, detailing the information she had collected over the last fortnight, of which wizards were carrying out which research, any latest developments and the translation of some of Felixssohn's work by Ragnhild herself. Ragnhild, thought Cecilia, thinking back to her statement about the research here being controversial. Her work was to find evidence for a link between redheads and magical ability, none of which could be called controversial in any way, although the amount of time Professor Andersson had given to her research, nearly eight years, was probably the most controversial part. She looked down at the letter again before folding it neatly, sealing it and, much to her annoyance but knowing it was for the best, leaving it on her table rather than leaving her room and risking being involved in a lesson that she had neither planned for or become psychologically prepared.

Cecilia leaned back in her chair and looked at the ceiling. What would have happened, she supposed, if she had turned on her heel and walked away, as Dumbledore had offered at their first meeting in a different dimension on a hot 15th July at 13, Grimmauld Place? What about if she had not been prepared to fit into the Reciprocators, avoided Remus Lupin and asked Aberforth Dumbledore for help?

Would her memory have been altered? Why had she been so ready to accept magic in the first place? Did she hate the world that much that anything new and exciting was such a refuge to her? Had he told her other people, other muggles, had been working for the Order to comfort her? Or did he mean in his role as the last Reciprocator?

She closed her eyes and started to fight the old familiar headache that was starting up, like an old acquaintance at the back of her head and the negative feelings of doubt, mistrust of her own actions and thus the corresponding feelings like before entering her soul. If only she was back in the Old Place, working on something for Remus and trying to help Harry by not disappearing behind the veil to fix something in the past. Now there was little point of considering what might have happened had she had given her Remus the potion she had made that would curtail or control his lycanthropy – that, like the Universal Link, had been taken away from her – but it didn't stop her imagining her Remus's face when she gave him something which reduced his symptoms to nearly nothing. It did not stop her imagining the great effect on the world had she managed to alter the base and top notes enough for Harry to defeat Voldemort. A little thought, another _dear friend_, remembered to ask her if she had ever really loved the Remus Lupin here…

…Cecilia shook her head, her hair flying about her, before opening her eyes. She was resolute, she had to be. She was teaching here, no matter what she thought of the place, she was reporting to Caelius everything she could, reams and reams of information which she knew would take up a lot of his time…he wanted information, he would get it…she would be a martyr of a wife and mother, rising above the dreadful reduction of her circumstances, the ignominy of being banished back here again…

Her eyes drifted back to her son's letter. Her darling boy had remembered her birthday and sent her a recent report that Minerva had written about his ability at transfiguration – she had written that he had potential and "a natural ability in the subject..." Her Septimus, who knew exactly what to give his mother to make her happy.

Which is why she would do what she could here to the best of her ability. She would keep calm and carry on, in the bloody-minded spirit of the fact that she was going to do her best to the point of driving her brother-in-law insane with her conscientious application of his words to her. She would, at every opportunity, ask Caelius about Remus's health. She would talk to her friend about things knowing that few if any other wizards and witches here spoke to her. She would teach. Picking up a pen and beginning a letter to send to Septimus, she smiled at the thought of him.

And Cecilia Lupin, nee Frobisher, nee Wells, lost woman from another dimension so easily swayed with self-pity if she let herself be, would do all of this faithfully and dutifully until she was allowed to go home again.

88888888

Septimus Lupin was staring out of the window watching the Gryffindor quidditch team crossing the courtyard and towards the gates. The gold and red of their kit stood out against the grey of the castle masonry and the grey of the weather – midway through October and it was dull with set-in rain and dense cloud. Absently he felt at his ribs – though he had been taken to the hospital wing to see Madam Pomfrey she had dismissed his aches as "being winded, no bones broken. Now, be away with you, can't you see I'm busy enough without self-inflicted injuries?"

Self-inflicted, he remembered thinking to himself. Now, just over a week since the match, he analysed what had happened again. He had not fallen from his broom for his health (clearly) and, as he thought about how he had let gravity take over when he'd given up the air-pressure as Ariella had fallen. He'd seen her a couple of times in the past week but each time she had scuttled past them, refusing to look at him.

"Weird," Julian had said. "If you'd tried to help me if I'd been falling, I would have at least said, "thank you"."

"You all right?" From the rain-spattered lead-decorated window Septimus drew his eyes and turned. It was Darren and he had tonight's homework tucked under his arm.

"Yep. You done it yet?" Darren shook his head. "Me neither."

It had been so strange. A week felt a long time when he recalled the moment he'd got back to the common room on the evening of the match, after speaking to Snape. He'd crawled through the tunnel past the Fat Lady before dropping onto the thick, patterned carpet. Very few students were up but there, on one of the sofas reading a magazine about quidditch he could see Darren Black's dark head, bobbing behind the pages.

He'd approached Darren, who'd put down the magazine, they'd shaken hands and that was that. Darren had told him that Julian had gone to see Madam Pomfrey about his cough and Septimus had told him how brilliant it was that his uncle Sirius had woken up. Darren had then told him that he was sorry his father was still ill. Once Julian had come back the next day, the three of them made their way to breakfast before hurrying down to the quidditch pitch with packed lunches trying to make sure they had a good view from the stands for the three house matches that were to take place that day. And in the week that followed Septimus, Julian and Darren had become inseparable, as it they had been friends all their lives.

"It's rock," said Darren, shaking his head. "I mean, I know that the work's supposed to be difficult but this is taking the mick." He looked down at the parchment again. History of Magic and Non-Wizard History. Professor Binns, though an expert in history (having lived through some of it and existed as dead through the rest) had clearly struggled to integrate the two areas into this subject and, as such, History lessons were twice as long as they should have been, meaning students were missing their evening as Binns covered the topic again, but from the Non-Wizard point of view. "I mean, how are we supposed to know what General Wellington would have done if Napoleon had been a wizard. Napoleon would have won, there would have been a French empire in Europe and we would be speaking French."

"Just put that," said Septimus. "I mean, from what I know, and that was from Mum, Wellington won because of the weather and because the Prussians got there in the nick of time. His strategy would have probably failed against Napoleon's if these things hadn't gone his way."

"OK, you put that, and the bit I said, and I'll put it too." Darren looked back down at his parchment. "Oh, Merlin, how are we supposed to cover 13½ inches of parchment?"

"Waffle about something and write big." Julian's voice interrupted them both and Darren and Septimus turned. "It's all we can hope for. Unless you want to start going on about rubber boots and brandy." Both of them frowned. "Oh come on…rubber boots…Wellingtons…brandy…Napoleon brandy…?" Julian shook his head and both Darren and Septimus laughed. It was Julian's turn to laugh when Darren took out his wand and conjured a spectre of a pair of boots being filled with a ghostly bottle of brandy before the boots then kicked the bottle towards the chimney breast of the common room's fireplace, laughing louder when two students ducked unnecessarily, shouting, "hey", and "watch it!" at Darren.

"C'mon," said Septimus, jumping off the window seat.

"Where're we going?" Julian looked at him quizzically.

"The owlery. Mum should have got her owl by now; I want to see if she's sent one back."

88888888

In the centre of the circluar room at the top of the tower in one of the highest mountains in the Black Forest a globe, in the centre of a box, hovering as if repelled magnetically from the base, glowed turquoise. From his chair near the window Albus Dumbledore watched it as white wisps of smoke danced and curled within, changing shape at will as he watched. The Prime Pensieve where, unknown to the outside world, all thoughts ever stored in magical surroundings, caged, enticed, moved, stolen, all were accessible. What could be seen on the surface of the globe, which was about a foot in diameter and shimmered even on the darkest of nights, was only a tiny fraction of the volume of the pensieve.

As he watched the thin strands of gaseous material swirl around Dumbledore pondered the immediate future, stroking his beard thoughtfully. No-one knew of the existence of the device, so powerful as it was that it could access any memory that had been taken from a mind, but care must be exercised. It was the interpretation of memories that posed problems; no context existed for the observer, no narrative that made the memory make sense. When accessing the information care had to be taken to make sure that because of the memory, deliberately given like those being thought and stored by students at Hedgewards, so banal as to be comical, or unconsciously, like from lovers who mistrusted one another, akin to going through the others' pockets, that key information, locations, names and so on, unfounded conclusions were not drawn.

Which was why, despite his lover's anxiety to get on with it, Gellert Grindelwald's keenness and excitement for action, to have a showdown for the honour and glory of his beliefs, all of those such things Albus knew that drove him on, that for this part of the work, the foundation on which the glorious showdown would be played, must be laid with care and delicacy.

A chill breeze blew its way through the open window. The whole of this section of the tower, which rose like a shard of glass from the mountain, was exposed to the elements. It had to be like this, of course: pensieves worked far more efficiently in cold environments. All those people who had bought the new-fangled ones, keeping them coat pockets and the like, complaining that they didn't work properly had only themselves to blame.

Dumbledore looked at the Prime Pensieve again. So beautiful, so elegant...

…he rose to his feet and approached, as if approaching a frozen lake, tentatively, his arms stretched out. All he had to do to access anything he wanted was to put his hands upon it and his mind would be filled, teeming like a fishpond, with thoughts, feelings, visions, all of which had overwhelmed and broken the minds of lesser wizards…

Of course, the potential to access all the memories in the world was open to everyone, like a book, but this book would hit you all at once with the prologue, opening words, key scenes, finale and epilogue filling your head all at once, confusing, disorienting, bewildering, the sheer power of the thing taking over your mind, causing delusions and madness. For Dumbledore however, with his skill in legilimency and occlumency it was a case or organising what was there into pieces and sections in the room around him before perusing the scene at his leisure. It had been a joy to use the pensieve to send information to those in different countries, reinforcing their beliefs, validating their attacks around the continent. Such a method was subtle and sophisticated, befitting the noble name of wizard. And it wasn't as if such low-key events were going to continue indefinitely: soon, the action that his lover wanted he would get, and if that didn't satisfy Gellert Grindelwald then nothing would.

But care needed to be exercised politically: that was Grindelwald's area of expertise. The Ministry in Britain and the European Government was not getting anywhere near enough information they needed to work out that they were behind the attacks and even if they did it would take decades for action to happen for the European Court of Wizard Rights would argue that to pursue action against those who were following the lore of ancient wizardry was illegal.

Should be, thought Dumbledore, shaking his head, for that hot-headed wizard was not content on continuing to string Henrietta Edwards along once he had the inside information about the British Ministry to pass on to him but had to eliminate her, the consequence being waves being made in Strasbourg for they understandably had concerns when she hadn't shown up. A noise from the right caused Dumbledore to turn and he smiled slowly at Grindelwald who was standing at the top step, watching him consider his pensieve.

"And what were you thinking about, stuck up here all morning?" Grindelwald took a step onto the stone floor. Dumbledore watched him walk over to him before turning back to the shimmering blue globe, watching further strands of memories slink around before disappearing off into the aether, into the world where they had been placed both within the globe itself and in the dimension in which they were held, accessible only in a few rare places of the world.

"I was considering the actions that the European Government have taken as a result of Miss Edwards." Another wisp formed on the surface and, as though as it had realised it had been seen, immediately shrank away.

"Henrietta, yes, yes, of course." Behind him Dumbledore heard Grindelwald approach. "Let them look, let them investigate…it's inconsequential in our grand scheme of things…" To his right Grindelwald appeared and began to stare at the pensieve too. "All too soon we will have our allies fighting our battles for us, at the end of this month we will have achieved so much."

"And you will have what we need?" Dumbledore turned, looking at him.

"Of course."

"Because…Lupin…they are concerned about the attack on him."

"Let them be occupied with that as well," replied Grindelwald, looking back at Dumbledore, who was now looking back at the globe, his hands rising to meet its outer glass walls." He paused. "You will have done all that is required by then?"

"There has been an inquiry into Miss Edwards' death," Dumbledore said, ignoring the question.

"Yes. It is unfortunate that I had to dispose of her in a non-wizard way." Grindelwald began to walk behind Dumbledore, making his way to the other side of Albus. "Pity, she made an excellent contact. But, back to what I was asking you, will you done all that will be required?" Dumbledore turned to him and both wizards exchanged a look.

"Indeed."

"And you will have the information necessary?" Dumbledore closed is eyes slowly, before turning back to the Prime Pensieve's globe and raising both hands again. "From our rat in the British Ministry?"

"I would hardly call him a rat; his figure is…statuesque…"

"And yet not got one of our three objects are in our possession, despite his promises? And you want me to be trustful?" Dumbledore lowered his hands, resulting in a small flicker in the atmosphere of the gas behind the glass of the pensieve.

"I have told you several times Gellert that I need to consider the effects of the events fed into them carefully." He shook his head as if lecturing to a child before making his way over to the naked window. "The ministry in Britain is beside itself with fear and worry, like sheep in a field with foxes, not knowing which way to turn. We have them, and will have them yet, as we have planned." Behind him Grindelwald followed, looking over his shoulder as he stood just to his right, overseeing the same landscape as they had done for decades, mountains iced with snow, intense sunlight making for vivid colours and contrasts.

"And your other source?"

"Gifted…talented…powerful…above suspicion…" he glanced at Grindelwald. "I would trust him with my life."

"Would you trust him with mine?" Dumbledore chuckled. "No. But then, in the end that will not matter."

"No," agreed Gellert Grindelwald, encircling an arm around Albus's waist. "It will not. And so, shall we go over the arrangements for the end of the month?"

88888888

"Wow!" Julian shook his head as he stepped down from the What they learned about in Social Studies. "I mean..wow!"

"That good, eh?" Septimus began to pick up the pace. After a afternoon of hard work, hard work on something he had had drummed into him since he could understand it he was in need of some of some food and a break.

"The way Professor Snape talks about it, like he was the one who came up with it."

"That's because he was," said Septimus, pausing as a flood of other first years dispersed behind them.

"Eh?" Julian stopped too, looking quizzical.

"Yeah, that's right." Darren, following behind them, "he did. Didn't you listen?"

"He said…something about being the most important development of the century in understanding wizards," said Julian.

"Well, I suppose he didn't actually say," conceded Septimus, beginning to walk in the direction of the Great Hall. Both of his friends began walking too – the last lesson on any Friday was always sociology, and it always seemed like it went on an hour too long – and they quickened to avoid the egress of the third years who were coming up from the dungeon from their "Practical Defence" lessons. Julian, who had recovered from his virus, had been paying a great deal of attention to his studies recently but in his distracted state Septimus realised that it had been the third years, presumably, who had been doing all the screaming when Professor Snape had been showing them images of DNA patterns. Oh, to have been down there with the third years rather than having to listen to something that he knew almost as well as his own name.

"How do you know then?"

"All wizards know," said Darren as the larger students pushed past them. "It's like being told about the 1966 World Cup by Bobby Moore, or –"

" – botany by Joseph Banks."

"Exactly," said Septimus before Darren could ask, "who?"

"But seriously…wow!" said Julian again as they paced into the Great Hall. "Double-wow if our headmaster discovered it!" Already it was filling up, which wasn't surprising. Two weeks into October and the Quidditch training was high on the agenda of all of the houses. Less importantly, to the students at least, was the increase in the amount of homework that had been set; just that week they had five subjects to do work for, due for the following Monday and Tuesday. Septimus looked around the room as he half-listened to Julian telling him and Darren exactly why he thought the idea of the Universal Link was so "wow". At least he could do his summary that night. It was like reciting a bedtime story – in fact, on so many occasions it _had _been his bedtime story, along with Grimelda, the Seven Giants and the Hedgehog and the Ninjas of Bodmin Moor. "Imagine you had to hide a secret," he could hear the voice of his mother say in the audio memory of his mind. "Where would you hide it?"

But, as Darren and Julian began to draw up the pros and cons of quidditch and football, something that had entertained them all every dinnertime since Darren had become their friend, he began to consider something that Professor Snape had said to them in the lesson, about the so-called "W"-gene that metabolised energy, something that, if you were a wizard you had, because that was the part that made your body be able to handle and process spells. In effect, Professor Snape had said, the strength of this gene determines how powerful a wizard you are, but, he was at pains to reinforce, even a person whose "W" gene acted weakly, allowing them to only do limited magic, they were still a wizard. Wizards' bodies had then the ability to metabolise the energy to convert magic to spells. He knew about it of course; that afternoon, instead of Professor Snape, his mother could have been speaking. But –

- you could live your life not thinking about magic…you might never be in a situation to think about it, but when given opportunity might find one spell they can do…some people never went or came into situations that made them use magic…but here, Hedgewards was all about the use of magic…

Before he had a chance to contemplate this again Septimus looked up from his pudding of Spotted Dick and custard to see a curly-haired member of Gryffindor being dragged to the table by a house elf. Septimus narrowed his eyes – he recognised the elf: it was the one who had followed him round the whole time in the summer when he had come to visit.

"Here," declared the house elf as he pushed Rufus Lestrange in their direction. "He says he knows you!" And, as Rufus sat down the house elf, who Septimus knew to be called "Dobby" (for he had told him repeatedly when he'd visited) added, "if you come down to the kitchens again Winky will cut you up and put you in the pudding."

Septimus grinned, trying to suppress a giggle and noticing that Julian and Darren were trying to do the same. Unmoved, Rufus T. F. Lestrange swung his legs over the bench and asked for the main course as if nothing had happened.

"So, er, Rufus, why were you down in the kitchens?" Julian's mock-seriousness with undertones of mick-taking made Septimus splutter into his robe-sleeve. Rufus turned and smiled politely at Julian.

"Oh, I heard singing," he replied, immune as he appeared to be, to the sarcasm. "I recorded it on my PP."

"Your pee-pee?" Darren looked away as he asked, turning red in the face as he forced himself not to laugh.

"Portable Pensieve," Rufus replied, pulling it out of his robe. "Sixteen-part harmony is incredibly difficult to achieve, impossible in humans at any rate. But I can hear it when I like on my PP; manipulate the score…I'm going to ask Professor Flitwick if I can let the choir hear it; I could even write a piece to be sung…"

"So what did you do to annoy the elves?" asked Septimus, pushing away his half-eaten pudding.

"Have no idea," Rufus replied, shaking his dark head of curls. "I mean, I just recorded them – the acoustics in the kitchens are superb – the fans had to be switched off of course, and I doused the cauldrons…"

"When they were trying to make dinner?" asked Julian, aghast as the others were at the boy's apparent actions.

"Oh yes. How else were they going to hear the metrognome? He works so hard, stamping out the time signature, it wouldn't have been fair for him not to have been heard."

"Whereas risking the entire castle not having any food was perfectly fine, was it?" Rufus frowned at Darren, failing to catch on. "Never mind," Darren said, before turning to Septimus, leaving Julian to shake his head in disbelief at Rufus Lestrange. "Are you going to watch the quidditch practice?"

"For a while," said Septimus. "I'd like to see Gryffindor's strategy."

"Rubbish," said Rufus, not looking at them, but at his portable pensieve as he spooned his pudding into his mouth.

"And what would you know about it?" demanded Darren, frowning in annoyance.

"Not much, but mum does. She's the Minister for Sport for the Ministry." He looked up, and straight ahead. "Come to that, she's specifically the Minister for Quidditch, but anyway. She says Gryffindor win on luck, when they do win. It's Ravenclaw that win on strategy."

"Call yourself a Gryffindor?" said Julian, his exasperation finally making him get to his feet. "Come on," he said to Septimus and Darren. "We've got some strategyless Gryffindor quidditch to watch!"

"What? You don't know the first thing about quidditch," Darren replied as Septimus got up too.

"I don't care, I'm learning. Besides, you always support your own, no matter _what."_

_It was when they got to the door, Darren commenting that, of course, he should_ have known from the name that Rufus must have been related to Bellatrix Lestrange, world-class quidditch player and Minister for Sport, before they stopped dead at the crack and flash of light behind them. All three turned…in fact, all of the students in the Great Hall had their eyes on the spot where Septimus, Julian and Darren had been sitting. There, next to Rufus, who was staring at the charred remains of his metrognome, stood Fraser Blewitt, his wand in hand.

"You just stop it!" Darren was charging towards Fraser, much to Septimus's surprise. Darren had his wand out and, though small, was picking up a speed to match his obvious fury. Confused, Fraser raised his wand from causing the imminent destruction of Rufus's pensieve and stared at Darren Black. "How dare you pick on him!"

"Stay out of this, Black!" He levelled his wand at Darren who, instead of shrinking back like many would do, drove onwards until he was standing next to Rufus Lestrange.

"No! You're a bully! And a murderer!" He gestured towards the metrognome's 3-dimensional trapezium-shaped box. Around them students were crowding, Julian and Septimus among them.

"Careful!" shouted Septimus as Fraser took a step towards Darren, standing over him. "This is none of your business!" Rufus looked at him impassively. "The gnome's back in the music classroom. But I don't know what Professor Flitwick will think about the destruction of the box. It's made of cherry wood, because of the resonance you see – " he broke off as Fraser turned his wand sharply and pointed it at Rufus's stomach. Rufus looked down at it, deadpan. From the teachers' table two, Professors Longbottom and Flitwick were homing in on the confronation.

"Just – stay – away – from – my – _sister_!" Fraser poked Rufus in the stomach sharply in the stomach before lowering his wand as Longbottom got to them, who turned Fraser Blewitt around at the shoulder and began to lead him away.

"She only wanted to know about the music on my pensieve!" shouted back Rufus, before turning to Septimus. "She just asked about the pensieve," he repeated, frowning a little. "I wonder why he'd get so angry over _that_!"

"Are you all right?" asked Professor Flitwick, the students around them drifting away.

"I'm _sorry_," said Rufus, pointing to the metrognome's case. "It was one of the best I've ever seen! I wonder what caused him to be so – " he broke off as Flitwick grabbed the case and hurried after the retreating Professor Longbottom and Fraser Blewitt, stamping his way towards them.

"Wow," Rufus said, his curly hair bouncing as he turned to Septimus, Julian and Darren. "Whoever'd think that someone would get so annoyed by music.

"But, are you all right, though?" asked Septimus, "he didn't hurt you?"

"No," said Rufus. "But I'd have been really annoyed if he'd have done something to this. Do you know I've got fifty-five different bird songs on here, all from around the grounds?"

"Come on," said Darren. "If we spend too long here we'll miss the start of the practice.

"What on earth have you got against Fraser Blewitt?" asked Septimus. Darren stopped, Julian bumping into the back of him. "Don't you know?"

"Watch it!" exclaimed Julian.

"Know what?" Darren looked at him darkly.

"Let's just say, it's personal, against…family."

"Why?" In the doorway of the Great Hall all three of them stopped again. Rufus Lestrange had clearly taken Darren at his word and followed them. "What has he done to your family? Sure, his family are Conjurists, but there's no reason to destroy school property."

"What are you doing?"

"Going to watch the quidditch training," said Rufus, his face breaking into a smile. "That's where you're going, isn't it?" Julian rolled his eyes in exasperation but said nothing. Darren shrugged, which left Septimus to nod. They crossed the courtyard in silence, lit as it was by flaming torches which lined the passages of the school until they reached the steps that led down to the quidditch pitch.

"Your mum's Bellatrix Black," said Darren, hopping down them. "we're related, I think."

"Yes," said Rufus. "She's not Bellatrix Black any more, though, not since she married my Dad and became the Minister for Sport when she had me."

"Well I never!" said Darren.

"What?" asked Julian.

"Bellatrix Black is the only witch who has never been on a losing team! She's famous!"

"She stopped playing for the Blackpool Banshees a long time ago," said Rufus.

"Yes!" said Septimus. "And she's the best minister the ministry have got, so says my Uncle Kay!"

"She believes all the world's problems would be solved if everyone participated in one sport or another. It's what she has in mind," Rufus added dolefully, rolling his eyes. "Non-wizards, wizards of limited ability, powerful ones…everyone would get along if they all played a sport. She doesn't care for music," he added sadly. For a moment Rufus reminded him of Eeyore from the "Winnie the Pooh" books, sorrowfully accepting life as it came to him.

"Fascinating," said Julian, tapping his head again.

"Where shall we sit?" said Darren, craning his neck towards the stand. "There's hardly anyone here. Septimus?" But Septimus said nothing; he just stopped and looked up to the Owlery. Something had occurred to him.

"Hang on," he said, marching off.

"Where're you going?" demanded Darren, as he and Julian followed him. Hurrying behind them Rufus Lestrange.

"To see if Mum's written back," he said. "I won't be long. Save us a seat, will you?" Julian and Darren looked at one another, before nodding in unison.

Like the quidditch stands the Owlery was devoid of many owls. Friday was a busy night; a lot of students wanted to get letters home as soon as possible so as to get a reply before Monday. No school owls were available and quickly Septimus crossed the stone floor to the slots where immediate mail was dispatched looking for something for him. Nothing.

Sighing deeply he crossed over to the nursery where the young owls were, Mervyn amongst them, who were learning to be post-owls. It would take about a year so, by next year, he would be able to take letters to Mum, or anywhere, for that matter.

"Hello," he said, fussing Mervyn behind the ears. "Sorry, I've not got anything for you," he added, realising why he was staring at Septimus expectantly. "There'll still be plenty of mice for you this time of year," he added, "and I'll come with some bacon tomorrow morning." Septimus was just turning to go when Mervyn brushed his hand and Septimus nuzzled him behind the ears again. "Good Mervyn," he added.

"Mervyn?"

"Rufus?"

"Yes, I thought I'd come with you. You are going back to the quidditch tonight?" Septimus nodded in the moonlight.

"Well then, I can walk with you." Before Septimus had a chance to ask Rufus why he hadn't just gone with Julian and Darren Rufus had added, "but why do you call your owl Mervyn?"

"Well, cos…that's his name?"

"His?" Rufus shook his head. "Your owl's not a boy." He stepped forward and fussed Septimus's owl. To his surprise Mervyn let him, cooing and chirruping.

"You're saying…?"

"Your owl's a girl, yes."

"A girl?" Well I never!

"Dad's a breeder," said Rufus, matter-of-factly. "What I don't know about owls…" He shook his head. Septimus looked back at Mervyn…Mervyna…?

"I don't think she likes that," said Rufus, still fussing Septimus's owl and Septimus realised he'd spoken the name aloud "She _is_ adorable," he added. Septimus smiled, thinking about the tag that had been on the owl's cage, the label written in a variety of languages.

"Adoriel", said Septimus, smiling at his owl.

"I've got a cousin who goes to Beauxbatons called Dorielle," said Rufus. "Dead into music too,"

Dorielle, thought Septimus, smiling at his little gift.

"Dorielle it is then," said Septimus, matter-of-factly before turning and heading out of the owlery. Rufus followed him and they made their way down the helical outer staircase of the building.

88888888


	40. Future Plans and Actions

"And you've come, Snape, to give your position on this matter? From the pastoral, educational sphere?" Around the Cabinet table in the Ministry Caelius Lupin looked up from the report that Severus Snape had given him. It was early in the morning, so early in fact that it could easily hae been mistaken for late the previous night. Few ministerial wizards were with them; several were on call to the Reciprocators, such as Demescue Goole, the head of the Aurors, Dave Mullen and both Lestranges, should those wizards on duty that night need them; as such they had been on leave for the day and would not resume ministerial duties until the next evening. Others were working on the revised social and fiscal policies which would integrate the European Parliament's laws with those of Britain, a meeting which had occurred the evening before with the entire cabinet and would have involved all still had Caelius not received the message from Severus Snape regarding Fraser Blewitt. Enough now were available for Caelius to call on in order to qualify Snape for the cabinet hearing for Caelius was keen to minimise the impact of this on the school and in the wider world.

He knew that several of the cabinet would not be so keen to subdue it though: it was illegal to use the term "misborn" no matter what, for the connotations that it suggested. The older cabinet post-holders, Herbert, Jones, Dainty, Forteskew, had been outraged at the short message that Caelius had received during the Social and Fiscal Policy hearing and had insisted they be present to hear what Snape had to say. Others not involved in the prior meeting had been enlisted to make up the numbers.

Mick Mullen had ambled in – late – put his feet up, crossed at the ankle, on the desk before winking at Severus and swigging from his coffee cup. Gregor of the Department of Mysteries was there too and Snape had forced the questions from his head regarding Tabitha as he had arrived, shuffling slowly across the onyx-blocked floor and muttering to himself loudly, immersed almost entirely in his own world. It would be pointless in any case; were he to talk to Gregor, the muttering Head of that mad and crazy department, he may well get an answer, but whether it would in any way relate to his question was a different matter.

Lucius Malfoy had sent, on gilded paper in beautiful handwritten script, his apologies for having to be at the fiscal integration meeting. Hervert Herbert, Head of the Ministry for Defence had been seated well before the start of the meeting, as if he had been there all night, and the previous day, inanimate save for his leafing through a pile of parchments with official Ministry stamps on them.

Jane Jones, of Wizardly Transport, Dulcie Dainty, her pinched features focused beadily on Snape and Evelyn Forteskew of the Magical Protection Agency, three witches opposed, in general, to Caelius Lupin, sat upright and still, as if poised to pounce on any weak assertion made by either Caelius or Severus Snape.

"Indeed." Snape pushed the document in the direction of Caelius Lupin who lifted his spectacles and read the cover before turning over the first page and scanning the contents.

"Hm. Hm," he replied, before letting go his glasses and looking at Snape. "You do indeed appear to be reporting a somewhat grave situation unfolding at Hedgewards. How are you controlling this?" Opposite, Snape breathed in sharply. Caelius, and his usual manner of blunt indifference towards those to whom he spoke when trying to ascertain the truth, was already beginning to annoy him and he swallowed down the biting comments that always arose in his mind at times like these.

"Yes, Severus," Dulcie Dainty leaned forwards, looking up from the minutes that were being written in front of her eyes which were a summary of the document that Caelius had just read. "We are all keen to know, such is your responsibility for all the impressionable children you have in your care." Snape shifted, unused to the charming manner of the Head of the Control of Magical Creatures, before inclining his head. He had been to see Dulcie on several occasions since he had begun to research a potion for Remus Lupin. Of the vampires she had under her control, in the security of Azkaban, one had been useful, having provided tissue samples that Snape had used for his initial tests.

"Wizards," Snape looked around him, nodding at the wizards of the female persuasion, "witches. I have merely used sanctions as laid down by school policy. As I told you in my briefing owl Fraser Blewitt had used the term towards a non-wizard student at Hedgewards during an argument on Saturday at a quidditch match. He has been punished at school, his privileges withdrawn and his parents notified – "

" – hmph!" snorted Gregor, though probably by accident – the Head of the Department of Mysteries was staring at the ever-moving whirl of cloud that was the Cabinet room's ceiling – though several wizards nodded in agreement: Blewitt's family were suspected conjurists and it would mean little if anything to them that their son had used the "M" word.

"Of course, I've explained to the boy that, as well as his education being in jeopardy, his meeting with the aurors who arrived this evening to Hedgewards meant that the incident would amount to an auror-record. He was reprimanded by Yarrow Gifford and Phlogistus Bim. The record should be with your department, Hervert," he added.

"It is where we go from here that is important," Snape continued, looking at Caelius. "As the government now controls Hedgewards it is vital that we agree to the response that is taken.

"The question is: should the boy still be at school?" Hervert Herbert looked at Caelius too. "For such a transgression of the law, towards a non-wizard at Hedgewards, when you are trying to foster integration and harmony between wizards and non-wizards." A murmur arouse. The point made by Herbert became an instant conversation point as it appeared on the minutes before them. Several wizards nodded in agreement; Jane Jones and Dulcie Dainty both nodded to one another and Gregor, though probably in another example of coincidence, looked around the Cabinet chamber and shouted, "Yes!"

Caelius looked around at the wizards too. Were they assenting to Blewitt's expulsion? Students had been expelled for less. Yet this was a delicate situation and required similar handling. The only wizard who had not spoken on the matter was Mick Mullen and it was at that moment he chose to unfold his legs at the ankle and take his feet off the table. The cabinet wizards stopped talking one by one and looked at Mullen, respecting his unspoken signal that he wished to speak.

"If we do that then that will only serve to drive a wedge between the wizard and non-wizard students at Hedgewards, in my opinion." The last three words he spoke with a grin and he waved his hand over his coffee cup, the water vapour from the instantly boiling coffee spiralled from the beverage's surface. He waited for one or two of the ministers to speak before shuffling upright into his seat from his semi-recumbent position. "Think about it: we expel Blewitt and it sends a signal to those wizards who also come from homes with a strong conjurist background. Parents will become defensive, opinion will become polarised. Now, I'm not saying what Blewitt's done is right, but the aurors have dealt with him and let him off with a caution. Should you, Professor Snape, be seen to expel him it would imply that Hedgewards believes the auror action was inadequate. We need a united front."

"All the more reason to let it be known not acceptable here!" explained Evelyn Forteskew shrilly. "I have relatives of non-wizard heritage who have had to suffer the ignominy of being slandered misborn." She shook her head and looked down. Snape meanwhile had been sitting still, and had been listening impassively. Now he leaned forward.

"It is my opinion that we have dealt with the boy in line with policy and his punishment, isolation from his peers for a week, withdrawal of privileges, a member of staff with him during the evenings, all of which support the actions taken by Gifford and Bim on behalf of the aurors. Our staff are aware that I have taken a course of action which is hard on Fraser Blewitt. I understand that, in accordance with auror policy, his parents have been visited."

"Indeed," Hervert Herbert sniffed, clearing his throat, before withdrawing his wand. He waved it towards a sheet of parchment, on top of which another appeared, opened by itself. Herbert bent low, squinting behind his spectacles and wrinkling his nose. "Indeed. Both aurors called upon the Blewitt family, issuing a notice to them regarding Fraser's transgression. It told them that he was cautioned and, should he break the law again between now and the age of seventeen this would result in his arrest." Herbert looked around, waiting for someone to say something.

"However it is not my opinion that counts," continued Snape as he filled the silence. "I will, as ever, enact the wishes of the Cabinet of the Ministry for Magic".

"My point entirely," agreed Mick Mullen, reaching for his coffee before slumping down in his chair and crossing his legs again, ignoring the futile scowl from Caelius.

"Then we must vote." Caelius, Head of of the Department of Relations (and, as such, deputy minister for magic) stood up, as was the custom, and he began walking around the perimeter of the wizards and witches, signalling silent contemplation. As he completed a circuit he stopped. "I propose that Fraser Blewitt should not be expelled from Hedgewards School of Ministry for Magic and should be dealt ."

Succint, thought Snape as the ministers fell silent again. Pertinent. Not, "should students who use the "M"-word be expelled", not a general ruling. Just Fraser Blewitt. Just this incident. He watched as Caelius began his procession around the table again. Two more circuits and he stopped again.

"Those in favour?" Eight hands rose. "Against?" Six. Caelius surveyed the wizards again. All had voted, no abstentions. "Then we have it." He turned to Severus Snape. "You are to deal with Fraser Blewitt as you see fit." Snape nodded as chatter erupted in pockets around the table, Evelyn Forteskew and Jane Jones turning towards one another and speaking rapidly. He was about to rise as the ministets chatted when someone spoke above the rest.

"While we are here I should like to voice a second proposal, something which may help Professor Snape in his duty as guardian of our young minds." Herbert Hervert looked around the wizards. "That's why we are all here, isn't it?"

"Indeed," confirmed Caelius cautiously. There was a combined intake of breath – all knew that, starting Hervert Herbert on a subject might mean they'd be there the next afternoon, and that was just to hear his scheme. "Please continue."

"From what I can see you have a fundamental flaw in your security at Hedgewards, Snape." Severus Snape said nothing, staring back at the Head of the Aurors impassively. "Oh, don't get me wrong, you are doing everything you can to protect the children in your care, no-one can ask for more. But undoing all your unparalleled hard work is in the unrestricted access that the students have to the outside world, to whit, portable pensieves. I believe they should be banned, Professor Snape, or severely limited at the very least. Did you not say that you suspected Fraser Blewitt to be receiving conjurist material at Hedgewards using his?"

"I did. We have no proof, however. But – "

"Oh come on!" Dulcie Dainty, her delicate features wrinkling up in disbelief as she interjected. "I don't know much about these portable pensieve things, but my niece has one and she loves it! To be able to access her friends, her parents, to share music – "

" – from anyone. Your niece, Miss Dainty, can access anything that has been thought and uploaded. From anyone. Anywhere."

"But the pensieve network is regulated. Isn't it?" Dulcie looked sharply at Caelius.

"It is. However we can only control what is already there. The floo network is fully occupied with this. New material is accessible for a short time."

"And so, here we are again, the long arm of the law meddling!" Evelyn Forteskew got to her feet. "Persecution of the young, this amounts to! What of liberty, what of freedom of speech? What of your staff, Severus, who now, to be equal to the wizards in the European institutions – " here she shot a glance at Caelius – "must be kept abreast of development for their own research interests? We can't uninvent portable pensieves!"

"No indeed, Evelyn," said Caelius soothingly. "However the floo network can prevent new, uploaded thoughts getting to influential minds. We have a duty. Their needs and opportunities to broaden their minds must be balanced with responsible care. Teachers will still have access."

"But if it had already been accessed by someone at Hedgewards this overrides the regulations that the floo network operators put in place." Herbert looked at Evelyn, who was standing there, slightly embarrassed from her outburst, to Dulcie Dainty, whose mouth was opening and closing in shock, unable to speak before looking at Snape.

"You propose that I ban pensieves at Hedgewards entirely?" Snape asked. "I know some teachers are integrating their use into lessons – lectures, homeworks, even the students capturing on moving image their potions lessons so they can practise accurate replication. And it would affect the teachers' pensieves too." Herbert shook his head.

"Only that the floo network accessible by those on roll at Hedgewards would be limited and that limit would be what is accessible by the students only. Your staff would not be affected. That way any questionable material that may have been otherwise viewed is not available."

"That's all very well," interrupted Jane Jones. "But you said anything that had already been viewed could be shared and the floo network could do nothing about it." Across the table Mick Mullen sat up again.

"Professor Snape, if this were to go ahead, pending a vote here tonight, would you be willing to police the wiping of thoughts already stored on portable pensieves owned by students at Hedgewards?"

"Of course. Heads of House could oversee this."

"Then I think we have a second proposal, for I have long since believed that it is unwise for students to be allowed unlimited access to the pensieve network. I know some parents have allowed the company's block to be put on their child's portable pensieve, a wise move, but equally there are many who have not."

"You second my proposal, Mick?" The Minister for Education nodded.

For the second time that evening the Ministers voted. For the second time Caelius circled the seated cabinet people, declared the proposal before circling twice more. This time it was unanimous, with Caelius abstaining.

"I will begin the process in the morning." Snape said, as a limit on the floo network was passed by the Cabinet. "Students will give their penseives to their heads of house for viewing and deletion of compromising material. Owls will be sent to parents detailing our actions and explaining the antecedents. "How long before access to the floo network is limited to Hedgewards?"

"Immediately. I'll send a memo to Arthur Weasley after this session."

Shortly afterwards and the wizards and witches left the cabinet room. Some shook hands with one another. Dulcie Dainty and Evelyn Forteskew walked out still talking to one another, Dulcie still clearly taken aback because of she thought she knew about portable pensieves and what she had subsequently found out. As they left Snape heard the words, "Aberforth" and "is that what he would have done?" Were Aberforth to be here, he thought, perhaps none of them would have such a responsibility…

Mick ambled out, saluting all as he left, coffee in hand, Gregor pushing past him muttering about a rota for mucking out the Mysteries. As Snape turned to go, making his way towards the cabinet room's fireplace, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"I appreciate the outcome," he said as Caelius placed his other hand on the mantelpiece. "Anything which allows the school to reflect the outside world only makes us stronger. The students will see that Blewitt is to pay for his utterance, acting as his punishment will as a deterrent."

"The bills are on their way to the Minister for Magic," confirmed Caelius. "They are as good as done, such is the nature of law, and the Minister will sign them in the morning."

"How is old Pettigrew?" asked Snape, unusually conversational about his old schoolfriend. He was unusually conversational about so many things Caelius felt himself rankle.

"The same," said Caelius. "We are lucky to have him." Peter Pettigrew had been headhunted for the European Parliament since its inception but had turned down the role of President eight times. He was happy, he'd always said, to serve the wizard community of Britain and this was his priority. However it also meant that it was unlikely that he would be vacating the position of Minister for Magic in the foreseeable future. But before Snape could take the opportunity to expand on the gloriousness of Peter Pettigrew's perpetual Ministryship Caelius smoothly changed the subject, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the joint Head of the Reciprocators.

"So, you have what you wanted?" Snape turned and stared at Caelius.

"It's not a case of what I want, only what is necessary for the students. As you saw I did not raise or incite discussion." Caelius shifted between feet as Snape continued to stare as the room now emptied. "A point well raised by Hervert Herbert, I observed." A few of the wizards raised their hands in acknowledgement as they left, to which Caelius responded by nodding. He leaned forward, ignoring Snape's comment.

"Snape. Severus," he said, Caelius's voice sounding frank – no-one, not even Severus Snape could remember when Caelius had addressed him by his first name – "tell me – " he gripped his shoulder, " – Remus…what chance is there…for his recovery? I know – " he broke off suddenly before continuing, " – I know what we say to one another, to the Reciprocators, to Septimus. Be honest with me, Severus, what chance has he? What chance have you of saving him, as you did me?"

At first Snape did not answer. It was unusual indeed for Caelius to address him so intimately. His initial response was to take the opportunity to belittle him, but Snape knew that, above all else Caelius cared for his family. It would serve no other motive for him to ask so humbly about the prognosis for his brother.

"You must understand, Caelius, that I am putting in my best effort. But the situation that your brother is in is complicated, far more so than lycanthropy. His medicine, the potion I have devised is keeping him stable but there will be a tipping point. It is to our advantage that the potion I am to give him tips it in the favour of blocking the toxin to stop it taking over his cells, from changing his DNA into that of a vampire." He paused, taking in the black silence. "He is becoming, or may well have already become photophobic; his is or very soon will be in need of other people's blood to temporarily replace the cells that have or will change that refuse to bind with iron…the compounds I am using contain sulphides originating from the allium family…garlic, you see, which, when I have found the correct blend, inhibits the change in his his cells."

"So, would I be right in understanding, from the technicalities of your discourse, that you are making progress."

"I cannot comment on the rate of progress, Caelius," Snape warned, "I would not wish to give you false hope. That said, Remus's is unconscious state is the best place for him."

"And you're sure it will work?"

"No, of course not." Snape eyed Caelius with a critical eye. "I am sure that my method will answer the question, which is not the same thing. The extent to which it will work in your brother's case is unclear, but it will be correct. I aim for it to work, but I cannot be sure. When, may I ask, will you be sending for Mrs Lupin?"

Now it was Caelius's turn to look at Snape coolly. He examined the Hedgewards' headmaster's face searching for the joke and was surprised when there was none.

"It was cruel to force her back to Durmstrang, surely you must admit that, Caelius," said Snape. "On the contrary, she needs to be able to see her husband."

"Should that be an option, she would still be here," replied Caelius icily. "Now, as I've left the potion for my brother in your care, kindly leave politics to me." And with that, Caelius pointed Snape in the direction of the fireplace and turned on his heel, leaving Snape to watch him leave the cabinet chamber, the door closing behind him.

8888888

It was a Sunday morning two weeks into October and the students were relaxing in their common rooms, studying in the library, catching up on sleep from the night before and generally just loosening up after a long week studying. It was now six weeks since the start of term and routines were now well-established. Friendships had formed over quidditch with students discussing the house- and professional quidditch matches; the former's viewing being planned for that afternoon; the latter's for Halloween, when the students had a day's holiday and were deciding which of the matches of the day they might travel to with friends and family.

Other students had bonded over other things; music, being shared by their pensieves with ones and twos sitting listening to the latest music groups and bands, sharing headphones or transmitting snippets of one or two of the songs around common rooms and, shortly after, being shouted at to turn it off. But not only music. The portable pensieves were far more sophisticated than just audio tracks; news, messages between pensieve-owners, short and to the point over, well, things that girls talked about; the boys keener on games that could be accessed and played three-dimensionally – wizard chess was always popular, but also "Defeat the Vampire", a highly popular game which allowed the player to do as the title suggested.

As he looked about the common room, waiting for Julian to return from his check-up from Madam Pomfrey (his cold becoming much better, but still lingering) and Darren from the library, who had gone to stake out the shelves where Madam Pounce, who had assured him that one of the copies of, "Hedgewards: a History" would be returned (it was only after they'd realised their history projects were due in on Monday and that, for his, Darren needed a copy of the book, not being able to use his because it had become an ashy mess on the floor of the Gryffindor dorm floor in an accident involving, well, lots of larking about), Septimus began to feel a little sad. He felt around in his mind for the source of the pain and found that it was focused around his father.

It felt like a long time since he had seen Remus Lupin. His father, according to the most recent update that Professor Snape had given to him on Friday, was comfortable, which didn't mean very much (for Septimus had long since figured that adults describing situations as "comfortable" were trying to fob him off). Somehow it made things feel a little bit worse, especially considering his abject failure to control even a blast-ended skrewt in the "Care of Magical Creatures/Care of Animals" lessons.

He watched a group of second-year girls settle across the arms and back of a settee by the flickering fire, pulling out a pensieve, the orb glowing as one of them operated it, as he thought of the project he'd chosen. Natural history, with the emphasis on the fossils. What did he know about fossils, other than what Julian had taught him? He only knew the names of four dinosaurs, whereas his friend could name at least forty. Septimus shook his head. Why hadn't he chosen insects? Somehow, he could have managed to fit in a historical aspect, if he'd tried. And if he'd been smart, he could have combined his project with the one that Professor Longbottom would set on Tuesday, killing two harpies with one arrow, so to speak.

He'd discussed the project, briefly, with Professor Snape and the headmaster, who had come to finish off Professor Longbottom's lesson on Friday and had asked them about what they thought of different animals, and their importance in magical society. Eve Lunn, a small, round-faced Hufflepuff student had asked whether the suggestions they'd given were right or wrong and Professor Snape had declared that opinions couldn't be right or wrong because, as long as you backed up your opinion with a logical reason, it wasn't right or wrong.

"It's what you think about something, the different angles that are explored, the different ways of looking at something, especially things that are past, that are important," Professor Snape had growled, to the students, listening to him, wrapt. We can't go back and recreate history, the origin of these magnificent creatures, so we have to use evidence, declared. Perhaps if someone were to be able to travel back in time, or to different dimensions, then we might know whether something is right or wrong, but until that time that such travel became commonplace, with the exception only a couple of wizards in the whole world who have enough skill to master such feats, and even then it would them a lifetime of deduction before they even dared declared the truth.

Well, Septimus recalled himself thinking, as Professor Snape spoke, before taking him off to tell him his father was "comfortable", as far as he was concerned, the truth was that he hadn't seen his father for nearly a month and he really wanted to have the courage to ask someone to take him without feeling that, should they refuse him, he would feel worse about the situation than he did now. If only mum was there to speak to. He could send an Owl, he supposed, but it wasn't the same.

"Hey!" Septimus turned from his semi-melancholic musings and turned. The crumpled face of Rufus Lestrange was staring back at him, a strange, twisted expression which Septimus took to be a smile. "What're you thinking about?"

That was Rufus, asking strange questions, but somehow he, Julian and even Darren had begun to get used to his manner. He and Rufus had bonded a little on their walk back to the quidditch game, just after he had told Septimus that Mervyn was actually Mervyna…Dorielle, Septimus has rechristened his now-revealed-to-be-female owl and, despite being more than a little strange all of them found that they had things in common. Rufus's mum being Minister for Sport was a real asset and had got Darren talking to him, and then Julian discovered that he knew a lot about nature, more plant biology rather than animal and they had spent most of the match discussing the relative importance of habitat on indigenous animal population around Britain, shifting from wizard to non-wizard perspectives, rather than actually watch the match.

"Nothing much, just wondering what I'm going to write today that'll give me a pass in History," Septimus replied. "That, and mum and dad." Rufus sat next to him on the sofa, ignoring the boy to Septimus's right as he yelped when Rufus stood on his foot.

"I understand. Not that I understand about how you feel exactly," explained Rufus, "because my mum and dad aren't away…well they aren't here, but – " 

"Yes, I know," nodded Septimus. He'd soon learned it was the quickest way of getting Rufus to get to his point.

"Well, anyway," continued Rufus, ignoring the deliberate "tuts" from the boy next to him as he made himself comfortable, "I can understand that you must miss them. So I got you this." He held out a book. On the front cover was a picture of a wizard, his wand aloft and a dinosaur appearing from the end of it.

"It's crazy, it's mad, when you read it," said Rufus, shaking his head. "But some wizards believe that a powerful wizard in the past created everything, even the dinosaurs, and scored fossils into rocks so we had something to find in the future." Septimus stared. "Wizardology," the book was called, and he flicked through the book. "I know…what some people believe…" he broke off and looked at Septimus. "But you could use it, I'm sure, to think about what some wizards think, then talk about the evidence that scientists have. It's like Professor Snape said, opinion doesn't have truth as long as it makes sense, and to them, this makes sense." Septimus lowered the book, and smiled at Rufus, his dark, curly hair bobbing as he smiled again.

"Thanks, Rufus," he said, "I'm sure it'll be most helpful."

"And you'll be able to write to your mum again; maybe Dorielle will be old enough soon to take it herself."

"She could be," replied Septimus, glancing towards the common room door. Much as he was getting used to Rufus he didn't bank on the twinge of sadness that had hit his chest and he wished the boy hadn't mentioned her.

"I mean, I miss my mum too, but she's only in London. I don't know how I'd be as brave as you." Septimus looked at Rufus, but before he had a chance to say anything he noticed Julian had appeared behind him. The boy on the other side of the sofa got up with the book he was reading and wandered off to another part of the common room, defeated as Julian blocked his light.

"Jules! How are you mate?"

"Yes," said Rufus, "how are you?"

"Much better, actually. I'm still on the medicine, but Madam Pomfrey said I'm better than I was."

"That's good news. Better hope you don't get worse now; some infections can be like that," commented Rufus conversationally. Julian raised his eyebrows, which was a silent signal to Septimus that he was being "weird" and Septimus tried not to giggle.

"Are you going to the quidditch this afternoon?" asked Rufus. Septimus looked across to Julian and Rufus turned, as Julian nodded.

"Great. I'm starving. You coming to lunch? The match won't be long, and I'm starving."

"We're going to grab some sandwiches and take them down," said Julian.

Septimus nodded, then added, "I've got this book to read before we come, that you've kindly lent me."

"Great! Shame, you'll be missing a good lunch," he said, but then added brightly, "but I'll bring you some pudding, if I can!" And with that, he bounded towards the common room door. Julian sat down.

"Quite mad," he said, grinning at Septimus, "but he's nice, underneath." Septimus nodded.

"So, are you really all right?"

"Madam Pomfrey said I was better, but not over it yet. She's got in some antibiotics; she thinks it's a virus. I don't care as long as I feel better. You don't really want to go to lunch, do you?" Septimus shook his head, glancing down at the book.

"What did he want?"

"To lend me this. I was thinking about Dad, actually. But strangely, he made me feel a bit better." Julian looked over.

"Ah, "Wizardology". Totally mad and stupid, but worth a read, I suppose."

"He thought it might help with the essay. He actually made me feel better about Dad."

"He's actually OK," said Julian, getting to his feet. "Strange, but OK." Septimus nodded.

"So, essays first, then quidditch?" Septimus sighed. But Julian was right. He didn't really want to rush it that evening, and the thought of facing Professor Binns and explaining that his work was late was too scary to contemplate. As they made their way upstairs Septimus smiled. More than OK. If Rufus could be happy being strange old him then he could go and ask about seeing Dad.

8888888

The inquest into the death of Henrietta Edwards was over. It was over and he and Hermione were able to get on with their lives. Sitting in the living room and watching the highlights of the quidditch from the day Harry couldn't help thinking how much it had dominated their lives. Now it was over the vacant silence of the constant updates of the inquest was almost as loud as constant owls.

Declared by Draco Malfoy himself, who had presided over the inquest, Henrietta being a member of the European Wizarding Government at the time of her disappearance, the outcome was far from predictable. Considering all of the evidence, including that of Hermione, who had been the last to see her, Henrietta's death had been put down to misadventure, a verdict that reverberated throughout the non-wizard and wizard communities immediately.

"What did that mean," Hermione had mused, as she snuggled into Harry that night.

"It means that they either don't know what happened, or they definitely do and don't want to say."

"They say she was a hero, investigating conjurism…following a suspect up the Harz Mountains…falling to her death from the Rosstrappe…"

Harry had said little else, but let Hermione hold him. She had to get it out of her system – it was a shock…and to be the last person to have seen Henrietta was a big burden. Now, a week later, it had seeped through people's consciousness, beginning the process of acceptance. Last week, Sirius was cut up; James had been in the floo talking to Harry before Hermione had returned. His mother had been devastated too. But Hermione was secretly glad it was over…Henrietta was a hero; she had tried to fight the scourge of wizardly fascism…and to be the last person to see a hero was not that bad to bear.

And then, that weekend, they had had a long talk about their future, deciding, in the end, to go to Europe, to Strasbourg. Harry couldn't be more pleased; it wasn't as if he couldn't travel to see whomever he liked within minutes. He could commute to London for the time; Ron could easily visit and make the most of the modern television. They had told their parents that morning and both were pleased; Hermione then received confirmation that afternoon that the Ministry would expect them at the end of the week.

Harry wondered why he did feel pleased about the situation. He would be moving away from his family, true, but apart from the sporadic conjurist attacks, which he couldn't do anything about anyway even if he was in the country, tings were settled. Sirius had his cure, it was controlling his lycanthropy; Remus was as well as he could be. Sam was safely at school.

And it wasn't forever. Hermione was pleased to agree that, once they were married, they would move back and, as an established MWP could travel to Strasbourg on a daily basis.

Harry smiled. They could get out of this house (not that it was bad, but it just sucked money away in rent) and move to a rent-free apartment. They could save money and Hermione could have the wedding she was dreaming about. He could start by giving everything a good sort out, something which he should have done when he had had some holiday in the summer but had never got round to.

Suddenly, he got to his feet. Upstairs Hermione would be sleeping, but he would be quiet. He could start with a few things in the cupboard under the stairs which was the dumping ground for everything they wanted to keep but not be bothered to sort out just yet.

Opening the door and trying not to make a noise Harry turned on the light, the dust swarming around the bulb like minute moths. Boxes, his broken broomstick that needed mending; the cases that they had taken on their last trip; Hermione's work folders, neatly labelled and ordered chronologically…his quidditch collection of assorted ephemera…

Harry began to unpack the cupboard, his sudden burst of inspiration and endeavour driving him on. They could take very little to Strasbourg, so a lot needed to be given away, stored or thrown. And he could start with the big pile of newspapers that sat between their cases which seemed to have made their way back from the apartment two months ago when they last visited the city that was to be their home, albeit temporarily.


	41. Put to Bed, Moving On

88888888

The coldness of late autumn in the north of the North Sea was beginning to bite hard. High above the highest tower the Durmstrang students were practising their broom skills. Cecilia watched them, their blood-red cloaks and helmets made of reindeer skin, warding off the worst of the bitter winds that swirled and rushed past the fliers.

As the rest of their lives at the school the students flew with a high level of skill and natural ability was a requirement of entry to the school – as such the chances of students falling from their brooms and drowning in the icy waters below were negligible. Quidditch was played on a marked out pitch above the waves that was marked out in advance with the spectators hovering on brooms of their own around the perimeter. A strange setup but one which highlighted the superiority of the students, but they were used to it; none ever complained. Indeed, several were proud at their unusual sporting arrangements, but it did make it difficult for Cecilia, as a non-wizard, to see the unfolding events of the games from such a distance from the owlery.

As a result, Cecilia had given up half way through the day, because she couldn't see the proceedings well was one reason, but the other was she was getting far too cold standing around on her own. Were it that her specific magical skills that were emerging in relation to her work more rounded and general: then she might be able to conjure a small fire to keep her warm, or fly a broom to join the rest of the students. She would have been alone amongst staff watching the match if she could have done that, though: not one member of staff was watching the proceedings, unlike at Hedgewards – or Hogwarts – and it appeared to be a remit of the older NEWT students that they must organise, referee and oversee the entire proceedings.

It was when the work was getting on top of her, or just the fact that she was there, isolated from her family, that she sought out distraction. That she could do magic, of a fashion, rather than her academic thought experiments of Remus's lycanthropy potion or the potion for Harry – both irrelevant here – or her espionage responsibility was the reason that she had been craning her neck for the best part of an hour watching the students play out an almost faultless game.

She could do magic. Kind of. Something which she had noticed when she was at Durmstrang before, but had put aside because of her own paranoia and lack of self worth. That was the emotional baggage with which she had been weighed down; before she had just got on with spying for Caelius, until the day that Remus had appeared and restored her faith in him, in their marriage, in her ability as a mother and a scientist. Now, free of such misery Cecilia was able to analyse what she was able to do, a rather restricted, stunted form of magic, but unmistakably magic, nonetheless.

Cecilia looked down the deep spiral staircase, the route that she was about to take and the one that she had taken when she had first come up here to the owlery when she had first managed the fleeting miracle that she had managed almost two months ago. She had done magic. Not much, and not for long. But she had managed to acquire objects from across the classroom by thinking about the magical declaration "Accio" as she had been tidying up her models of molecular structures. And she had managed "Accio" again and a levitation spell in the intervening weeks, none of which had any seeming underlying pattern in terms of context, situation or time of day.

"I always knew it was possible," Ragnhild had said happily, as Cecilia had recounted the experience to her one evening. "Perhaps the magic you managed before you left will come back to you."

"I don't want it to!" Cecilia had said, "I'm non-magical and proud of it!"

"Like a conjurist!" Ragnhild had joked, and Cecilia had laughed at the thought of her being a non-wizard conjurist.

It had been these stairs down which she had descended, carrying the precious vial of perfume that her beloved son had thought to send her. It had been Ragnhild who had transformed it into her favourite scent, turning the entire vial into a bottle of antique Shalimar, her favourite perfume and she had had trouble stemming the tears that both gestures had invoked in her as she sprayed in her favourite scent. It was a smell that resonated through time and space, conjuring up images of her life just before she had knocked on the door of 12, Grimmauld Place (when she had been able to find it), having sprayed the last of the bottle that Tim had given to her onto her throat a couple of hours before ten p.m. on 15th July; the scent of which lingered on her clothes long into October when she was at Hogwarts…that was more magical, she thought, the ability for her senses to be connected to memories which happened in a different dimension…

She had descended the stairs Cecilia remarked, not for the first time, on how lucky she was having someone to speak to like Ragnhild. Little was out of bounds in terms of academic research at Durmstrang and Ragnhild was someone whom Cecilia felt she could trust, not least because the witch had shared so much with her.

Winding down the stairs Cecilia counted herself lucky that she had an afternoon to herself unencumbered by students seeking her attention or trying to cajole her – politely – into running an impromptu lesson there and then. She could put aside her thoughts and immerse herself into her work, particularly that pertaining to "The Art of the Wize", or at least, nominally to do with that. She couldn't believe that she would not think about Remus, the Remus she'd left behind, and Harry Potter, the boy of seventeen who had fought Lord Voldemort. Somehow, trying to solve these irrelevant problems made her feel much better about being at Durmstrang, away from her son and her life.

Before she had arrived at her classroom-lab, however Cecilia had put her head around the door of Raghnild's room and instead spent the afternoon there, despite having only intended to spend a few moments saying "hello". It didn't matter: whatever Cecilia felt she had to do in terms of preparing lessons or adding to the lengthy notes that she was preparing with which to bombard Caelius an afternoon with Ragnhild Andersson was always well spent.

Her friend had commented on her appearance at the quidditch match, citing it as unusual at Durmstrang for teachers to watch. Though she was not a follower of the game Ragnhild had added, Crystallia was enjoying her time at Hedgewards and had reported to her mother from time to time the camaraderie and bonding that had happened for each of the different houses as a result of the game.

"But I'm concerned for my daughter," Ragnhild went on, "in the summer we have had, she would have burned!" She shook her head and smiled at Cecilia, who was sitting on one of Ragnhild's chairs and as close to the fire as she could ge. "I know she'll be sensible; she'll use a sun-blocking charm. I'm worse; a few rays of sun and I'm as red as a tomato." She grinned, tossing a small log into the hearth. It glowed green with the magical fire, throwing out a gust of warm air which Cecilia found herself enveloping, and enjoying. "You think I choose to carry out research indoors, do you?"

"Well, yes," replied Cecilia, knowing what the answer would be, for they had had this conversation before. Ragnhild relaxed and smiled at her friend, realising that she knew Cecilia was ribbing her slightly.

"And then there is the case that we must share our research! What rot!" It had been a couple of weeks ago when a copy of the European Parliament's edict was delivered to Durmstrang. Cecilia remembered receiving a copy left outside her door. She remembered reading it through as she shivered in the hallway. "Academic co-operation...open access to research areas…" As she'd read Cecilia knew such demands, as law, would not go down well with the teachers at Durmstrang; any attempts to penetrate the walls of the school would be considered outrageous.

"The Headmaster has issued a rebuttal," Ragnhild continued, handing Cecilia a cup of tea. "As the oldest and most exclusive academic institution in the world we will not participate in – " she sniffed, " – _progressive_ magic." Cecilia nodded. It was inevitable, bur also predictable. Whoever had decided this must have known this would be the response.

"I, I am to relay my research to someone at Beauxbatons! Rassgoet! They know nothing! Believe me, Cecilia, this is the beginning of the end, a step too far!" She shook her head. Cecilia said nothing, recognising the Icelandic profanity. Ragnhild sat down and took up her cup, one of steaming coffee that was beginning to dampen front of her hair as it condensed. "I can see it to be the end of everything…" she looked to the stone floor as Cecilia reached out her hand to Ragnhild, taking her hand and holding it for a moment. As a truthteller, a rare gift, Cecilia could see how it would be such a burden for her. Compelled to say of the future what she could see, condemned to be ignored until after the event. There was no point telling people in charge, Ragnhild had once explained to Cecilia, for no-one would take her seriously. A course of events that she had learned through childhood, and possibly a reason why she did actually seek out solitude and isolation, to spare herself.

"Could be worse, I suppose." From her reflection Ragnhild sat forward and smiled at Cecilia. "I could have had to talk to some wizard from Britain, eh? Britain! "The Land with no Magic!" Only your Severus Snape would understand what I did, eh?"

"Quite right," nodded Cecilia, letting the prejudice pass her by. There was only so far that Ragnhild's liberalness would stretch, she knew, and it was common to refer to Britain as having no magic because so little that was used originated there. Instead what had arrived on its shores had been used, changed and adapted. More versatile, but not pure magic, as conjurists would have it. That's why their philosophy made no sense. "Plus, I don't think anyone would understand what you're doing."

Indeed. Cecilia could barely understand it. Severus Snape probably would, were he privy to it. What the direct application of Ragnhild's research into the prevalence of magic in redheaded people might be Cecilia was not sure, but what she was sure of was that it was very interesting.

It went like this, and in the opening premise agreed with what non-wizard anthropologists had evidence for, that all humans originated from Africa and spread across the globe. Redheaded people inhabited the far north of Europe: northern areas of Scandinavia, Spitzbergen, Iceland and had very pale skin and red hair, an adaptation that helped them reap the most of the miniscule quantity of sunlight that passed through the atmosphere per year. As such, the redheaded trait of paleness was an advantage so as to allow for the maximum amount of sunlight possible to be absorbed by the skin to create vitamin D.

But of course, not all those who are redheaded stayed in the sunlight-poor regions of Europe; many moved, invading southern islands and countries, emigrating for a better life, for a climate that might allow them to farm, for example. As such, descendents of such emigrants were sensitive to the sun – burning after more than five minutes in the sun, to bright lights; had more incidences of skin irritations such as eczema, more chance of having lung disorders, noise, even low levels is a disturbance as nerve impulses are more sensitive; that you are able to perceive things more easily from subtle changes that your more attuned senses are able to detect…

Of these points both non-wizard anthropologists and Ragnhild agreed. Where Mrs Andersson took the point further was into the realm of wizards, how was it that this specialised adaptation of redheadness in humans was related to so many more, significantly more proportionally, of them being wizards.

Joseph Black noted that redheads, even those who were non-wizards, were persecuted relentlessly by other non-wizards under the assertion that they were all evil witches and wizards; it was one of the reasons he founded the Recipricator movement, to allow for understanding and co-operation. Ragnhild had spent many years ploughing through evidence, both genetic and social, historical and contemporary, sifting through data, retaining and cross-referencing those which were most reliable. To date she had established that redheads were able to channel magical energy more easily and so, as well as being sensitive in terms of their eyesight, hearing and skin redheads were sensitive to energy and had the most chance of being able to metabolise it, converting energy into magic.

"Don't let conjurists read what you've written," Cecilia had joked when Ragnhild had explained her research to her almost a year ago. Ragnhild had laughed. But that was the thing about Durmstrang: despite its exclusivity, it's seemingly prejudicial views, its agonising pursuit of excellence such things could be discussed without connotations being applied to it. It had academic value, Ragnhild was sure but, as she had said at the time, "no-one listens to me; no-one ever does."

It was the idea of redheads being able to access magic that brought Cecilia to her next question that afternoon. She hadn't intended to discuss her apparent ability to do magic but, as she had brought it up it had occurred to Cecilia that the two factors might be related. Her apparent magic intrigued her. From the vast library of research she had discovered that such a phenomenon had been recorded before. A Professor, who had jumped off the top of Durmstrang's highest tower in a suicide attempt, had researched non-wizards in wizard environments a hundred years before.

His observations, way before the discovery of genetics, had included observations such as basic magic done by people who were non-wizards. "But of course, hitherto muggles [such a word was permissible then], though driven from society now" being able to perform magic were thought to be mere conjurers or frauds, my conjecture is that these people, born of non-wizards, have a very limited magical ability, and are indeed wizards born to muggle families developed and honed by working closely with wizards in such environments as Hedgewards School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Ministry for International Magic and the Court of King Caractacus in their menial places within these exalted magical places."

"It could be that, as you have some redhead traits you are sensitive to magic," concluded Ragnhild. "But, of course, you work here. You are a wizard in your mind, Cecilia, which is why you fit in well at Durmstrang." It was one of the reasons for the school to be set up in the first place.

Beyond the prejudice Cecilia had wondered, could it be that these people were in fact non-wizards, but, like her, had been in a wizard environment for a sufficient length of time to pick up some crude pseudomagic? For, try as she might, Cecilia found she could not repeat her success repeatedly, on demand, that she had achieved by summoning her books and closing her classroom door. Her magic seemed more like some sort of subconscious act. It was unlike, for example, when she imbibed butterbeer and been very lethargic and ill for a week at the Old Place, she recalled…something that had happened so long ago, in a different dimension of time it felt like a dream when she recalled Severus Snape, the Death Eater, scolding her for her foolishness…something which had led her to have the fundamental notion that energy had to be processed or metabolised by wizards in the first place…and further to speculate on the biological mechanism.

"I do feel as if the school is familiar," Cecilia replied, sipping her tea as, from Ragnhild's window, she could hear the cheers from the quidditch match that must have now finished. "I'd be so happy, Ragnhild, if Septimus come here. I'm sure he'd pass tests to get here…" She trailed off, thinking to herself, "would he want to?"

"Would he want to?" Ragnhild echoed. She caught Cecilia's narrowing eyes before apologising for her rather accurate guess at Cecilia's next question.

"No, I shouldn't think so. It's a selfish thought, but one which has been on my mind lately." Cecilia looked away. "How wrong of me that I should wish he were here." So perceptive. Ragnhild's gift could be such an asset to someone, someone in power, in government…somewhere, someone would find a truthteller useful…and they would have to have a thick skin to bear it all...

…Cecilia turned and smiled at her friend. Yet she wasn't at the side of any president, instead she was here, isolated save her research and academia-hungry students…in general, people didn't like to hear too much of the truth, she knew. She also knew that this was one of the reasons Ragnhild felt uneasy at the thought of having to share her research as, with her research, also came a good deal of herself.

"You miss your family, that is understandable. Your son, at any rate, and you worry about your husband." Ragnhild returned the smile before touching her shoulder. "He came to see you in June, and you put your differences aside." Cecilia nodded, placing down her cup. They had talked about this before, once she had returned, at the start of the year. "It's too bad to want a thing and not be allowed it," she added, waving her hand at the tea-tray, smiling at Cecilia.

"Thanks for the chat," said Cecilia, getting to her feet, a cold shiver running through her as her friend's words invoked the image of her husband, lying unconscious in St. Mungo's. Sometimes what Ragnhild said made her wonder whether she too was someone who couldn't handle the truth. "Do you have a lot to do?" she added. Ragnhild nodded her head sadly and Cecilia couldn't help but wonder if her sudden melancholy was because she recognised a polite, hasty departure from her company.

"Always, Cecilia Lupin. As do we all." Cecilia smiled again, pausing deliberately and looking at Ragnhild Andersson, her ice-blue eyes staring back; her long blonde hair around her

"And thank you for the tea," she added. "I don't know what I'd do without you to talk to, Ragnhild."

She thought about the last remark that her friend had said as she returned to her lab, to the irrelevant lycanthropy cure and the equally pointless cure for Harry. Staring at the solutions, cooled and semi-congealed Cecilia wondered vaguely if she should bother with them at all. They were of no significance, of no useful advantage. A waste of time and effort to all intense and purposes, which is why, she supposed, she had given herself such a hard time about pursuing their outcomes when there was no practical application for either.

But both kept her mind going, challenged her to think, to work. And they were a source of comfort, despite, or perhaps _because_ they had come from the Other Place. Too bad to want a thing and not be allowed it…

She crossed the stone floor over to where Harry's potion, the base at least, had cooled to a mint-green blend for the most part darkening to a forest green near the bottom. Ruined, Cecilia surmised although, had the burner beneath not run out of oil how could she be confident that it would ever work?

What would have made the difference, back there, for Harry? A memory of a conversation with him replayed itself in her mind…

…"Dumbledore left me with Aunt Petunia because she was mum's sister. There was something about her being mum's sister that's important. It would be good to know what it is. To know that it was worth it."…

Sitting down on her bed and staring at the copper steam distillation apparatus that she had been using to extract lavender oil that she had narrowed down as being an active ingredient in the base, she thought back to the moment when, in the old world, she had crept into the Dursleys' bedroom and found some of her hair sandwiched between pages of a journal. She had not discerned what connection Petunia Dursley had, how she had come to have a so-called "W" band in her DNA profile when she was not a witch, but Cecilia suspected that, like her counterpart here in this world she would have some empathic power. Petunia Black, Darren and Dudley's mother and Regulus's wife, was good at showing her understanding, putting people at their ease.

Whether Petunia Dursley was shunning a similar magical trait in herself was a matter for debate for the woman was actively anti-wizard because of her experience in the past with Sirius and Severus Snape. Sirius had deliberately put her in the way of harm from the wizards who would one day be Death Eaters and it had been Severus Snape, whom Petunia had loathed for encouraging Lily in magic, who had rescued her because of a tip-off from Henrietta Edwards.

Cecilia shuddered. Henrietta Edwards. A spiteful, malicious woman as far as Cecilia was concerned, but of course she had only the Henrietta of this time on which to base her opinion. She shook her head, trying to drag herself back onto the topic. What was it about Petunia that meant she was able to protect Harry? She could shield him from harm, that was true. But was it enough, _would it have been enough_ for Harry had Voldemort been standing right in front of him in Petunia's presence? Would the love have been able to deflect the "Avada Kedavra" spell?

She thought hard, thinking about such magic, trying to incorporate what was known about DNA here into a hypothesis in the Other Place. The resonance of the energy of the DNA of individual people could be protected by using a spell that counteracted the electromagnetic wave. That was how Petunia was able to conceal his whereabouts and how she could protect him from detection. This basis was used here, in this world, where the DNA of people could be incorporated into a potion or a spell in order to protect them, deal with injuries (so-called "Personalised Healing") locate them, such as the Ministry had tried to do that summer with her.

What spells could be used in the base part of Harry's potion which could be able to help? It wasn't as if she could ask the Harry Potter here if he could be the test subject of an "Avada Kedavra" spell which may or may not work. But…she was on the right tracks, this she knew. But Cecilia had known this earlier in the year and chosen to end it all by burning her journals. Did she really want to go back to a meaningless pursuit of a perfect potion for the Harry Potter she had left behind? What was she trying to prove to herself? It wasn't as if she hadn't spent hour upon hour in the Durmstrang library over the last nearly two years trying to narrow down a spell or ingredient which might have done the job. And it was the same with Remus's potion.

And then something clicked in Cecilia's mind, something that she had never realised before. When she had been through all of her surmises, guesses and hypotheses about both Harry's potion and the one for Remus, when she'd spoken of them all to Severus, when they sounded ridiculous, even to her, when she'd been at Hedgewards and had demanded to see him at all hours…he could have laughed, mocked her or brushed her aside. But he hadn't. What he had done was encouraged her, in his own subtle way, by means of challenging questions and suppositions of his own, and made her think about what she was doing.

Which was why she had catalogued everything, from applications of physics and engineering (the Knight Buses), through spells, potions, wands, magical creatures, herbology, even divination and astronomy brought down to the ordinariness of science. Even the time when Madeye Moody had repaired her house when she had turned up after coming from Libby's house, after it had been broken into (by Sirius, she had later found out) she'd documented in detail. By writing all of this down, Cecilia had often thought, was akin to rebooting a computer to its last known good format, to when it had been tidy. It had made her feel better and had put her feelings in order, as Aberforth had told her it would.

And she had turned to this method to analyse Auld Magic, superficially at least, to understand it, to pin it down simply and to make it less controversial. Cecilia had often wondered why no-one had ever thought to bother about it before, especially when there were so many extremists flocking to its cause – surely explaining the psychological comfort that wizards felt when feeling exclusive and being part of a long history of magic would allow both non-wizards and wizards alike to have a more common understanding. Even Felixssohn's stance was of the "ivory tower" variety than political subterfuge. But it appealed to extremists and it was being use to cause a divide between wizards and non-wizards. Surely that was what the Reciprocator movement was all about, not just swanning around, helping the government here and there, a bit of research…but front-line stuff, remembering what being a Reciprocator was all about, uniting wizards and non-wizards, being the medium between them, smoothing things over, offering understanding…

Cecilia shivered, but it wasn't because of the cold. It was the creeping guilt that she was beginning to relive because of how it had been received by the Reciprocators when that _witch_!..she controlled her breathing and shoved out the thoughts of anger…when Henrietta…had read out her work, the shame she had felt, the look on Remus's face. She supposed that it was only to be expected that he felt betrayed, betrayed to another version of himself in another place, that she, in his eyes, found him not good enough, despite her pleas of denial. Which is why she had made the gesture of burning the lot four months before, as a sign that she was done with the lot; that her marriage and her son meant more to her than her work.

Could she honestly begin this again, pick up from where she left off, more or less, and be able to do it without feelings of betrayal and guilt? For surely pursuing something where there was no practical outcome could not be a threat? If it kept her sane when she was here? The "Art of the Wize" stuff she had happily bequeathed to Caelius and she was bent on providing him with copious amounts of information. As was her position at Durmstrang.

She thought back to her original self-questioning. If it was so innocent, why was she trying to justify it to herself? Remus here she could not help, not by applying her knowledge to his plight, but she knew a wizard who could. And it would help, she reasoned, for Severus Snape to be unfettered by her interference.

No, Cecilia thought as her eyes drifted to the two potions. It wouldn't hurt her to continue with either, as Harry's would not come to anything other than for her own amusement. Remus's lycanthropy cure with silver nitrate as a basis having a stabilising property on the cells that were affected by the pull of the moon's gravity and causing macro-metamorphosis – that was, his transformation into a werewolf. The potion was already a common treatment for werewolf bites if used within days of the original bite, for example, but for her, Cecilia, to figure it out, that would be an achievement. And it wasn't as if she could test either; even Harry's potion required magic and what passed for magic at her hand was not sufficient.

She missed Remus, and Septimus even more so and, when it came down to it she knew that researching both potions would keep her mind active and not cause her to mope, or worse. Ragnhild knew, and had offered to take her, if Cecilia wished.

"The boat takes too long," Cecilia had pointed out.

"Ha!" Ragnhild had scoffed. "There is more than one way in and out of this school."

Cecilia had never taken Ragnhild up on the offer, but she felt that she did need to see him. Soon, she decided, once she had made some progress here. She nodded to herself in agreement. And it was decided that she would continue with the research.

Pulling back her blanket Cecilia crossed over the cold stone floor, feeling a weight lifting from her shoulders. So, to analyse the ingredients of both and document her findings.

Hand mid-grab for Harry's potion, intending as she had been to scrape out the contents of the round-bottomed flask Cecilia lowered it again. She felt bad, but not for the work. For the situation she was in. Self-pity at the caged feeling that had been forced upon her by Caelius.

She would continue, Cecilia decided, once she had sent a letter to the Chief Minister. She had little information that was valuable but a lot of observations. It was then up to him to filter through what he needed.

Smiling to herself Cecilia picked up the quill that lay on her desk and, sitting before it, pulled out a clean sheet of parchment and began to write…Ragnhild's recent research into redheads in wizardry; her and the rest of the school's feeling at the collaboration that was being forcred upon them…the provision for all the students of a copy of "Art of the Wize" by Felix Felissohn in their individual home language of each of them…the quidditch match that day…the teaching she was doing. It was what she was here for, of course, and she would make sure thee was enough for Caelius to read. Maybe it would be enough to set her free from here, it would make herfeel better, she knew.

As well as carrying on with her potions, Cecilia added to herself as she finished the letter to Caelius and sealing it ready for owling later that day. Placing the letter on her desk Cecilia turned to look at the flasks once more.

An hour of work, as she documented her findings and Cecilia was feeling much better than she had done earlier. She would treat herself to an early night. Cecilia smiled as she pulled out some paper and she began to write down what she had done that evening, and her findings. Her recommencement of her research had gone well and now she was painstakingly recording all that she had done, her observations and findings.

In the pile of things that Harry had sorted out ready to throw away, nestled between a carboard box with a 1970s design crockery set and a pair of badminton rackets a quiet scratching could be heard, had anyone been around to hear it.


	42. Pensieves and Friendships

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Severus Snape put down the owl he had received, his eye taking in the green seal on the back indicating that it was from the Ministry for Magic. Looking at the sharp, angled letters he shook his head, glancing at the other post that he had received that day too. It had been a long one and still it was not over. After dealing with the paperwork he would be heading up to the mezzanine behind him to work on his research potions, at least the results of a couple which he would be sharing with designated wizards from Beauxbatons. Contentious, he knew. But he had to toe the line with respect to the European Ministry. Before he could get on with this though, he would have to reassign, delegate, deal with and reply to several enquiries, queries, complaints and, potentially redesign several parts of the curriculum.

He looked at his name, scrawled in haste across the outside of the folded parchment; he'd known before he'd opened it that it was from Bellatrix Lestrange, the Head of Wizard Sport and, even after reading a couple of sentences he'd known that the woman, who lived in a different world to everyone else, had had her head in the clouds again. But this time, it was different; unlike her proposal for 80% sport on the timetable with existing staff covering the shortfall (Binns refereeing a match?!) Snape knew he could not ignore this, endorsed as it had been by Caelius Lupin. What Madam Hooch would have to say at this particular proposal he could not predict, but he could take a stab in the right direction.

Shaking his head again Snape got to his feet. Rufus Lestrange would have, as Mrs Lestrange had suggested, reported everything back to his mother, in his idealogical, simplistic manner: the first-year openers, the training, even the support that quidditch had amongst the non-wizards. "…Rufus tells me that…" she had written several times, followed by the short, to-the-point memorandum penned by Caelius.

It went like this: Bellatrix was proposing a new sport which would be accessible for non-wizards as well as wizards, using the school as a flagship for it, allowing inclusively, harmony and co-operation between wizards and non-wizards, a cross between non-wizard football and existing quidditch. The Minister had supplied no other details; how the sport would be played and how non-wizards would be incorporated were factors that were anyone's guess. But there's one thing that Severus Snape would not be unaware – how many of the students would feel, especially after that afternoon's fulfilment on the last requirement of the Ministry. His ears would still be ringing after a week at the outrage expressed by many of the students as access to the main pensieve network was blocked allowing only contact between students.

At least a dozen of the letters lying on the desk had come from furious parents who objected to their denial of instant access to their child; were they the same ones who would have been at Hedgewards in the late 1980s, where they themselves had contact with their own parents via owls, as their offspring had used to inform them of the situation? Had it done them harm to be absent of contact of their own parents? Snape shook his head as he picked up his quill, finishing the letter he was about to send out that night to all families, something which should have come from the ministry but had been left to him to be front-line. Something Caelius should be defending. He read what he had already written, erased the last couple of lines using the feather-end of his quill before continuing, extolling the point of security, referring to the bi-nightly attacks of conjurists on non-wizard establishments and homes; that it was school policy under their duty of care to protect students from extremism; a reminder that the floo network was available for students to contact parents though the students' Head of House and similarly if parents wished to contact them.

Pushing away the letter, once finished, Severus Snape withdrew his wand and, with a swift flick of his wrist the missive was duplicated; another and they were travelling towards the hearth. From there they would wend their way across the courtyard to the owlery and on doorsteps and through letterboxes by the morning.

Poor Caelius, thought Severus sardonically. Didn't Lupin realise that the effort he had put in, and compelled others to put in, was, ultimately, wasted? Students would socialise; anything ingrained from their home background would already have an impact? And that any ban imposed by any adult automatically would be challenged by any young witch or wizard as a matter of course? He knew that the heads of houses had also received owls, and howlers, something he had warned the staff about; something he knew that would happen as he had sat around the wide, oval table in the Ministry.

Snape got to his feet, putting the pensieve action out of his mind. There were other things for him to have to consider, particularly the non-wizards and, even more particularly, the non-wizards who were getting ill, and those who were becoming proficient in magic. There were things in common, one at any rate: those who were succumbing to illnesses in excess, visiting Poppy Pomfrey for colds, coughs, viruses…persistent visitors in the hospital wing, were one and the same. Several letters had arrived for him, letters from non-wizards, arriving several weeks after posting, covered in stamps, full of concern about their children.

The majority were still in full support of their children being at Hedgewards, so full had their letters home been of their time here, it appeared. But, Snape knew, constant illness of these students in his care meant he would probably have to send them home to recover fully, something of which he knew Caelius would disapprove, for the wizard had already impressed upon Severus the significance of keeping non-wizard students in school.

Snape smiled to himself, but not in happiness. Would Caelius be sympathetic to his point of view, seeing as he was, after all, responsible for the safety, health and wellbeing of the students in his care, or would he press home the political issue, were he to be aware of Snape's suspicions of why he believed there was a connection between illness and apparent magical ability in the non-wizards here at Hedgewards? Would he be interested? Would he care? He would only care about the look of the thing, of course, how it would be perceived by the country, and Europe.

Besides, Snape could only speculate, based on his ongoing observations and, of course, historical accounts. Would Lily Potter realise his recent interest in her specialism, casual as it might have appeared? Of course she would, though he suspected that he would be speaking to the Reciprocators before long and the fact, like so many, would be academic. And in any case, to test his hypothesis fully, he would need genetic samples: regardless of the ethical issue the fact the students may get worse would supersede his proving or disproving the point.

"And I suppose you're going to tell Caelius about what you're going to do," said Aberforth from his picture frame. Severus looked up to see his predecessor leaning casually against the frame.

"Of course not," replied Snape. "It would make no difference to him and in fact may sway him from the proper course of action."

"The proper course? Is his action not as equally valid?"

"Does he have the welfare of the students in mind when he makes political decisions as he does?"

"Do you have the country in mind when you make pedagogical decisions?" Snape shook his head slightly but did not break eye contact with the younger Dumbledore brother.

"I know what is causing the problem," replied Severus evenly.

"You suspect," corrected Aberforth, "but yes, of course the health of the students must be considered. You said that their families supported their continued education here?"

"Many of them. Several are enquiring about reports of magical ability though more are concerned with their child's health. It doesn't do to have so many people taking up beds in hospital wing or back in their dormitories, especially when they should be learning. Not to mention the additional burden on the time of the staff to supervise the students and Poppy's almost round-the-clock vigil."

"Yes," chuckled Aberforth, "I don't know how she does it, but she does, and she will. No patient will be left untended, no student left untreated. Much like her grandfather, oh yes. I remember one term when Pompops Pomfrey treated the entire Slytherin quidditch team for a case of Dragon Pox. We never did find out who'd done it, but everyone was convinced that it was an inside job – house colours you see, greenish tinge to the skin!"

"I'm concerned about the reaction of the young wizards towards those non-wizard students who have achieved some magic," Severus continued, "some students think that the non-wizards are playing tricks and have got other students to do magic for them or are cheating in some way. Some of the non-wizards are feeling under pressure if they've not performed any magic."

"And yet you are handling the situation marvellously," complemented Aberforth, smiling at Severus Snape. "The difficulties that you and Caelius find in working together will prevail in the end." Snape closed his mouth; he was about to ask Aberforth for the umpteenth time why his legacy was to share the position of Head of the Reciprocators between him and Caelius Lupin.

"I shall leave you, Severus, to continue with your work. I know you are busy with finding a cure for poor Remus Lupin."

"Indeed." Snape nodded before turning on his heel. From what he has seen the last time he had visited St. Mungo's, "poor Remus Lupin" was right.

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Down in the Gryffindor common room a page of a book was being passed around the room. Some were reading it and giggling, some smiling. Others were ignoring it and getting on with reading or homework. It had come in Septimus's direction who, having read the title at the top, put it down on the arm of the chair and turned back to the game of "Top Trumps" he was playing with Julian.

"The Art of the Wize", was a book which had been smuggled into school by an unknown student, immediately confiscated on discovery in the Ravenclaw common room, students of the house claiming an academic interest, but not before several of the more interesting pages having been copied and circulated. One by one the pages were being collected by staff and heads of house, or thrown into hearths by more conscientious students but still some remained in circulation.

The parts about a magical language had intrigued several, until it was pointed out that, to non-wizards, the spells were the magical language; another section talked about the genetic ability of wizards to do spells and how this happened. Again, someone pointed out that it was what they learned about in biology in any case thanks to Severus Snape's work nearly fifteen years earlier – the Universal Link.

All that the controversial book had promised in terms of shocking evidence that would divide wizards from non-wizards didn't seem shocking at all, if you thought about it. Septimus had explained it to Julian as sections came up in topics of conversation; some wizards could do some spells, such as some people were good at maths, or running and some, like non-wizards, couldn't do magic at all, except for some who had come to Hedgewards where obviously the environment had brought out their abilities. But still the interest persisted with several students, mainly because it kept most of them from moaning about their pensieves being blocked and how unfair the whole situation was.

"And then there're some non-wizards who are interested in magic. I suppose it's like someone who can't do a thing, but appreciate it."

"Like drawing."

"Like drawing," conceded Septimus, who had first struck up a conversation with Julian when he commented on his friend's beautifully accurate drawing of an ammonite that he had discovered on holiday to Bridport and had asked him about the chambers in the spiral.

"So you can help me with this homework then, seeing as you know so much about the Universal Link?" He put down his cards and pulled out of his pocket a parchment with the words, "Summary of the Universal Link, by Julian W. Scott", written in it.

"Maybe," Septimus glanced up as the page that he had discarded had been whisked off the arm of the settee on which they were sitting.

"Come on, Sep, help me with the homework!" begged Julian. "I just really don't understand any of this, and your mum's worked with Professor Snape on this! Tell me again about genes and DNA?" But before he could begin, much to Julian's chagrin Darren walked over and sat between them.

"You still doing that, Jules?" asked Darren, glancing at the parchment that Julian was folding up.

"I was. Just don't get it – " he glanced in mock-annoyance to his friend, "even when I have the world expert sitting next to me."

"I'm not an expert," replied Darren.

"Before you were sitting here?" he added, rolling his eyes.

"_I'm_ not an expert. I mean, are you an expert on Walter Scott just because your mum's mad keen on his books?"

"Not an expert, but I could tell you something about it, like I thought you would about the Universal Link," Julian complained. "And I know you've done your homework, you did it in five minutes at the end of the lesson."

"It's like this. We're made of cells and they contain chemicals called DNA that tell our bodies what to do, how to be…"

"…how to be," repeated Julian, bending towards his lap and, with a quill scrawling down what his friend was saying. "Go on."

"Wizards have some chemical DNA that means they can use any energy around them to make into spells."

"But non-wizards don't have that particular…DNA…?" Asked Julian.

"That's right," replied Septimus.

"And it depends on how good your DNA is, if you're a wizard," added Darren, watching Julian write. "If it's good at changing the energy into spells, then you're a good, powerful wizard. Some wizards aren't so good though – "

" – they might be good at one particular type of magic, for example," finished Julian, nodding at Darren. It was a credit to their other friend that he recognised that Julian would be on and on about this if he hadn't waited to share with them the news that he so obviously had.

"Got it," confirmed Septimus. He paused, trying not to rush as Julian finished writing everything down. When Julian began to fold up the paper and stow it in his pocket Septimus turned to Darren, looking at him expectantly.

"You asked me about Fraser Blewitt," said Darren, shifting between Julian and Septimus. "And I spoke to Dudley." Septimus stared at Darren and Julian frowned. They knew Darren's older brother knew a lot about the other students, having spent a year working in Hedgewards before applying to the Ministry; it had been Dudley's unruly behaviour and bad record that had required him to do voluntary experience at a wizard institution. He had relished the opportunity and had thrived, working closely with all of the Head Boys and Girls and the house masters and mistresses, a consequence of which was his picking up of a lot of gossip about a whole manner of things. But before Darren could share what he knew a shadow blocked his light. All three boys looked up into the face of Sam Potter.

"What are you planning?" asked the Gryffindor Head Boy. He glanced at the arm of the sofa and frowned. Septimus followed his look and watched Sam grasp the scrawled copy of "The Art of the Wize" page. "I've not seen you with this," tutted Sam as he crumpled it under his hand. "And nor will I again," he added.

"It's rubbish anyway, and nothing we don't already know from School," said Septimus, hoping to sound dismissive. "Mum tells it better," he added.

"Only I wish some people would have explained it all sooner," grumbled Julian.

"Okay," replied Septimus, "where do you want me to start?"

"How about you start by saying about DNA before I tell you about Ariella," said Darren, a small smile on his face.

"How about you tell us about Ariella before I hear about DNA?" replied Julian, a little too quickly. Ignoring the raised eyebrows of both of his friends as they exchanged looks Julian looked expectantly at Darren.

"Well, according to Ro Williams, who overheard Ariella speaking to Gertrude Harris, their father is a wizard well into – " he lowered his voice, " – conjurists – " he looked around. A couple of other students from the third year passed behind the back of the sofa, pausing for a moment. "There's more," he hissed, turning as the two older girls laughed loudly as they walked by. "Not _here_," he added, lowering his head and looking between Septimus and Julian.

"Then where?" hissed back Julian, leaning in.

Wondering why it was that his friend was keen to know what Darren had to say about Ariella and how it was that he knew, Septimus followed both of his friends through the passage towards the Fat Lady's portrait, pushing it aside and jumping down into the corridor.

"Where shall we go?" he asked as they all looked around. No-one was and there was a further pause.

"The library?"

"The library?! We have essays due on Monday; the common room would be quieter!" Julian shook his head. "How about the greenhouses?" Septimus looked at his friend. Julian, the botanist and geologist – he was learning so much about the magical plant species faster than even the keenest of wizard students. It wouldn't seem odd for him to be down there and, considering the rough time he'd had recently having to stare at the ceiling of the hospital wing while he recovered from one malady and then another a few hours with the strange, weird and wonderful biological species down there was hard to complain about. Darren on the other hand, rolled his eyes, but held his tongue.

"I was going to suggest the quidditch broom sheds," said Septimus conversationally. "I need to polish the Lightningshot anyway. And I'll help you with the essay later," he added as they began to make their way towards the stairs that led to the side entrance of the ground floor of the castle.

"OK," replied Julian, his mood a little brighter and Septimus wondered whether it was the thought of the plants or…maybe…? The seed of a thought went unwatered however as Julian added, "could you take me up on your broom again sometime?" Septimus smiled.

"'course!"

"Such a pity you can't do it yourself," said Darren conversationally. "I mean, it's so cool, and you can play quidditch, even if it's just a throwaround, and – "

"When mum gets her way non-wizards will be able to play quidditch." The three friends stopped and turned. Behind them Rufus Lestrange smiled at them toothily, a slightly strange expression considering he was wearing jeans and t-shirt and, over the top, what seemed to be a football shirt crossed with a Gryffindor house robe.

"It's a prototype," he said, answering their unspoken question. "Mum sent it. It's – " he looked around furtively at the semi-lit corridor, "mum's got plans," continued Rufus tapping his nose. "Put it this way," he said, leaning in towards Julian, "never say never, as far as quidditch is concerned. Or should I say – " he broke off.

"Should you say…?" repeated Darren.

"I shouldn't," said Rufus. "Mum told me not to. But you'll soon find out," he added, oblivious to the confused looks that his remarks had invoked "So, where're you going?"

Ten minutes later, and in amongst the hissing pines ("to mask to noise" said Julian, but Septimus knew his friend better), Darren stood between Julian and Septimus, Rufus standing a pace back, his portable pensieve in hand as he queues up the tracks he was about to listen to. Whether they would call him their friend Septimus was not in the position to say for sure, but he seemed harmless and even Julian hadn't objected to him accompanying them despite how much Rufus irritated him.

"I was saying," said Darren, as Rufus stepped closer. "Ariella told Ro and Gertrude that her father was involved with conjurists."

"Well, that's not news," said Julian as the intermittent hissing around them began to quieten. "We could have guessed that from her beloved brother."

"Who took his time to save her when she fell from the quidditch stands," said Darren. "Apparently Ariella and her mother are against conjurism, and his father's afraid that Mrs Blewitt might say something."

"Like what?" asked Septimus.

"She didn't tell them," explained Darren. "Ariella said that she didn't know, but whatever it was, he was afraid of it, afraid he might get in trouble."

"How do you know all of this?" asked Septimus. "I mean, where did you overhear things that girls were saying?"

"In the changing room, after quidditch this afternoon," said Darren. He shook his head and looked a little taken aback when he realised what he'd said. "I wasn't _there_," he explained, "I wasn't spying on girls, if that's what you're thinking. But…wait, before I say this, don't assume it was anything to do with me. Extendable ears." Julian and Septimus looked at one another. Rufus, not quite on this planet or, if he was, didn't respond to the even the most obvious of stimuli, merely looked up from his playlist, appearing to listen intently.

"I got rid of them, obviously," said Darren. "Don't know how long they'd been there," he added, shaking his head. "Between the exit corridor doors."

"They were late to dinner, I remember," said Julian, pausing as the hissing grew again. "You were too." Septimus nodded. "But…you took them out?!" Julian shook his head. "Maybe they were there for a reason!"

"Not a good reason I expect. I had to; Sam Potter came in and saw them. It was that, or being up in front of the McGonagall."

"Or worse," said Darren. "I've been up before Professor Snape once too often this term; Mum and Dad weren't impressed. Dudley had never got spoken to by the head in all the seven years he was here."

"Really?" asked Rufus.

"It's something I'm sure I'm going to hear a lot of while I'm here," said Darren dolefully. Septimus threw him a sympathetic look. He knew how much Mr. and Mrs Black doted on their elder son. He often wondered whether Darren got into quidditch because Dudley was never interested in it; he could never be compared to his elder brother.

"That'll be the reason Ariella always looks terrified all the time, why her brother keeps such a heavy hand on her, doesn't let her talk to anyone," said Septimus, as the cold evening breeze blew through the open frames. The pines' hissing started again, this time at a slightly higher pitch and he noticed Julian turn his attention to this momentarily.

"I thought it was because she was weak," said Darren, "magically so," he added as Julian squinted at him. "Someone who can only do a bit of magic, whose DNA lets them do only a few spells."

"The Universal Link," piped up Rufus as he looked intently at the screen of his portable pensieve before jabbing it with a finger. Julian sighed.

"So everyone knows about the Universal Link except me? Perhaps we really should have gone to the library!"

"Don't worry mate," said Septimus, smiling at his friend. "I'll go through it with you tomorrow, I promise." A gust of wind puffed through a broken glass pane causing a short, low-pitched hiss to come from the nearby pines. "I wonder what she knows about conjurists that's so bad," he continued absently.

"Her father arranged for the half breeds to come into the country," said Rufus, his eyes fixed on his portable pensieve as he spoke. "Mum said." He looked up at three shocked faces. Thales Blewitt found the houses that took them in." A moment passed, before he looked at Septimus. Their eyes locked for a moment before Rufus looked back to his playlist, his earphone leads trailing through his curly black hair.

"Oh mate," said Julian, clapping him on the shoulder. But before anyone had a chance to say anything the metal of the door through which they had come rattled.

"The wind," said Julian over the sound of the hissing. But then footsteps disproved his assertion and the friends looked around them.

"Hello?" A voice they recognised emanated from the direction of the rattling and the footsteps. The owner of the voice then appeared in the gloom. "Lumos," the voice said.

"Professor!" Julian smiled nervously as Professor Longbottom, his stature looming above them and it occurred to Septimus as he put to one side the stunning news that Remus had just confided, how much the Professor of Herbology looked like a big teddy bear.

"What are you doing down here? Julian? Septimus? Darren…? Rufus…?" He looked at each one of them in turn, his expression one of concern fused with mild accusation. Before Julian could say something, which Septimus believed would be plant-based Rufus looked up from his portable pensieve and looked at their teacher.

"Professor, Julian is interested in the hissing pines. I decided to come down with him to record them, so he could study them in his own time." Septimus stared, before jerking his head towards Julian and, behind him, Darren. Both were staring open-mouthed at Rufus Lestrange, who appeared to have taken in a lot more than his outward manner would appear.

"Is this right? Julian?" Professor Longbottom stared at him. "Because, though I approve of your keenness in the subject your absence in the common room has been noticed." Julian said nothing but, still staring at Rufus, nodded firmly.

"Your Head of House will know about this. Punishment will follow, I can assure you." Darren shook his head: another black mark on his record compared to the blank sheet of his brother's. Septimus gave him a sympathetic look.

"And, Mr. Lestrange, may I check your portable pensieve?"

"Certainly, Professor." He pulled the wires from his ears and gave the handset to Professor Longbottom, leaning over when, with a pause, their teacher frowned a little over the operation of the device.

"…music…lots," narrated Rufus, clicking down the menu, "I'd have got more but, as we can't use the network anymore, I'll have to download some more next time I'm home…"

Septimus's mind darted back to that afternoon when, as the students were bemoaning the lack of research now able to be done with their pensieves, as well as other amusements, Professor Flitwick pointed out that, if they needed pensieves to so research then they didn't care enough about their school work to put in the required amount of effort.

"But, it's not like we copy everything we find," said one girl from Hufflepuff, "we have to put it together ourselves."

"Tell that to the dozen students whose essays I marked this morning and which were virtually identical. It also is unfair as the non-wizard students amongst you do not have that advantage." This caused a little uproar amongst the students and it wasn't until Rufus Lestrange bravely (or foolishly) stood up and said that it didn't matter as he could read and was happy going to the library, despite the argument against the library which entailed calming most of them down before they could get read.

Rufus had, over the uproar of the comment of Julian Scott, stood up and said that non-wizards had to cope with no wands, so did that mean they all had to lose them? "Professor Flitwick had frowned before realising what Rufus had said . "If I had no feet, would I be bothered about shoes?" Septimus had a funny feeling that Rufus had saved Julian from a detention as the class around them realised that he had defended pensieve ownership and had greeted his comment with a cheer. Professor Flitwick had been so confused that he had forgot to remonstrate either of them.

Later that afternoon Julian had appeared to push his irritation about the boy aside and had let Rufus shows him his musical instruments; he, Septimus and Rufus had shared some sweets and they'd laughed about the metronome which here was actually a "metro gnome", a gnome that lived in the pyramidal shaped wooden box and beat out the time as Rufus played his electric guitar, declaring that, despite what Septimus thought about it being really good, that he was actually a beginner. Perhaps this was why Rufus had come after them this afternoon, and why he had half-shared his secret about goodness knows what.

"…ah yes, here. This is what I recorded tonight." Septimus's mind was brought back to the present and he watched as Rufus, as they stood in the greenhouse, stabbed at the screen and the loud, high-pitched hissing that they'd heard as they'd arrived replayed. Immediately the local pines struck up a complementary hiss which began to grow."

"You can turn it off now, lad," said Professor Longbottom, over the ever-increasing din.

"What?""

"YOU CAN TURN IT OFF NOW!" he bellowed as he looked around at the clearly distressed saplings. Rufus jabbed at the screen again and the recording that he'd made on the pensieve dropped to nothing and, almost immediately, the hissing around them stopped too.

"Sorry, Professor," continued Rufus. "I couldn't hear you. But I switched it off because the trees sounded upset. If you want to hear the rest, I could replay it for you back at the castle?" Neville Longbottom gave him a look, one which Septimus thought conveyed confused admiration crossed with mild exasperation, one which he was all too used to seeing on Julian's face.

"No need, Rufus," assured Professor Longbottom. He surveyed the group before marching them back to the castle.

As he pulled the covers up to his chin that night Septimus replayed the events of the evening in the greenhouses in his mind. All that had gone on, and had spoken about had been interesting. Ariella and her family; Julian's covert research on the plants that he was interested in; Rufus's complete on-the-ballness with what was going on, and jumping in to help them out, the result of which had meant only a week of detention for them all with Professor McGonagall, which could have been far worse.

What stuck in his head, what his mind could not let go of was what Rufus had said about Ariella and Fraser's father. Of course he knew that someone had allowed half-breeds into the country, something which had led to individual wizard conjurists to keeping them in their houses, some of which had then attacked wizards and non-wizards alike. But what he remembered most was his own reaction to Rufus's unchecked words. Someone had had to have let the halfbreeds in, but to know someone related to that person?

The pang of sadness that was always at the back of his mind had grown to an ache, a reminder now that there was nothing that could be done for his father. That students he knew had a father themselves who was, indirectly, responsible for putting his father into intensive wizard care, something not even the cleverest wizard or healer could say if he would recover.

Such an unhappy thought was enough to keep him from sleeping so Septimus knew that, if he resolved to do something the next day about it he would eventually doze off. Turning over he reached under his bed for his box of self-inking quills and parchment. "See Professor Snape about Dad," he wrote, watching the nib of the quill as he formed the words.

Folding the parchment up and putting it under his pillow, Septimus dropped the quill back into the open tray that the moon outside was illuminating. Nearly full moon, Septimus thought, as he closed his eyes and began to formulate just how he would explain the "Universal Link" to his friend the next day.

Perhaps he should start with something he remembered reading in "The Art of the Wize" page that he had had passed him. "The antidote for a blended poison will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each of the separate components". What they'd done that evening was worked together and they had, in part, got off the hook. Goodness knows what might have happened if they'd been caught talking about conjurists.

An image of their newest friend, odd, strange but likeable, appeared in his mind. Rufus T. Lestrange. Their newest friend.

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	43. Onwards

And now she was walking, walking quickly. The ground beneath Tabitha Penwright looked like cushions of cloud, a disconcerting appearance as you stepped on them, waiting to fall through. But she had been here long enough to have grown accustomed to them and knew that you had to find the spot in the ground, in the sides, sky, to get through into the memory - for that's what this place was made from - otherwise you could walk forever.

If time actually moved here.

But it didn't. Worldly constraints such as time, space, dimensions, weather, temperature… they didn't exist here. Tabitha had always imagined what the world beyond the veil would be like, and it was exactly like this. She was fortunate enough to be able to get here, come here. Or unfortunate enough, Tabitha corrected herself, leaving wispy footprints in her wake, which suddenly re-formed as though she had never trod there. What was to come she would not wish on her own worst enemy, not that she had any enemies that she knew of. But, what he had asked her to do…what she had agreed to do…what was supposed to be done…that was…not yet. Now she had the ti- now she could wonder at the place, probably the only person ever to have wondered about it.

Not the only person. In "Harry Potter and the Story that Never Was" Cecilia Frobisher had wondered. Tabitha knew that she must have been here, despite her claims only to have dreamed it up. It didn't matter: things like that seldom did to Tabitha. Untruths, concealments, political spin, all of them passed her by. They were nothing of any use and had never helped her with her mysteries. What she did miss however was her work that she had laid aside, her technological work. Vincento had given her a compelling argument why she should do the work she was doing with non-wizard technologies and incorporating it into the wizard world first, and leave the veil second. It was tempting. But he didn't know why she had chosen to act as she had done. Besides, application of new discoveries could not begin until the latter had been fully investigated.

Perhaps she should not be there, doing as Severus had asked of her. But deep down Tabitha hated what Grindelwald and Dumbledore were doing, hated the principle of it. Were they to succeed and bring about mass conjurism in Europe the freedom to explore the mysteries she so loved would disappear; she would be imprisoned in the world without the means to use her gift. She may even be terrorised for lack of wizardlyness, something which was still a sensitive point having endured many a taunt at Hedgewards when she was much younger. Imagine having to live like that – it would be like being in prison.

But, there was no need to think of that now, Tabitha assured herself. Even she would not know precisely the way back to the veil if she were asked at that moment; all she had accomplished so far here, the memories she had viewed, some investigated, some discounted…she had done a large proportion of the work so far. The toughest was yet to come, however. The memories that had not yet been sent here were still to be explored. Emotionally-wrought memories that were yet to be stolen and locked away here, they were the ones that were needed for the plan in which she was complicit to begin fully her work here, and to end.

It was easy to understand why people had trapped the veil in the mysteries and why this place was such a cache for those thoughts which people wanted to access later, or just forget about entirely. They had enshrouded it with magic and also, with a more powerful curtain, a curtain of mockery of those who studied mysteries. Who would want to be a Mysteriour? Those who studied plants were cool in comparison. Only those with the rarest of gifts like herself, with the compulsion to work with objects that no-one else could understand, whose lives were like a living depression when they were denied the chance, only those wizards would dare try. Had she been a different person, had she been, say, Caelius Lupin, she might easily imagine what it felt like now to be a god, to be able to change things at a whim. And so very dangerous a power, too. Perhaps people like her, who lived for the urge to unmystify things and not for glory and honour, perhaps that was a reason her blighted gifts were bestowed on her.

Tabitha trod carefully now. The memory on which she was treading felt thinner under foot and she would have to be careful lest she fell straight into it and be noticed. She had the chance to wonder now, and that was happiness itself. Tabitha knelt down and pushed her hand through, parting the matter with her hands. She peered into the sight of the Hufflepuff girls' dorm at Hedgewards…daytime…a girl was unpacking a bag and reading a letter…it was making her smile…any other clues…? Bright sunshine…the start of term by the look of it…a memory stored, Tabitha surmised, in a portable pensieve. Perhaps a letter from home…she peered in deeper, and smiled…the girl was removing what looked like new clothes, books and sweets. Unmistakably so. Tabitha leaned upwards then got to her feet. Interesting. Not what she needed, though. And she had examined many such memories that students that year had chosen to keep, like visual entries in a pink, fluffy, lockable diary, boring and irrelevant to anyone but that girl. There were far fewer Hedgewards memories that she had chanced upon recently, nothing of quidditch match victories or inter-house competitions of which she knew Severus hated but went along with anyway for the students.

No sniff of the disturbing memories that she knew would begin her work, tax her, keep her on her toes. Smiling again Tabitha walked gingerly past the hole she had made in the memory as it gained more form and proceeded off in the direction of another, smaller and a little thinner by the look of it. She was in no hurry to begin, for she knew it would be the end of musing and surmising of the wonder of the place.

And what and end it would be. But for now, Tabitha had time to wonder.

88888888

How could all these people be connected with her? Could all redheads do magic? What had caused it? Was it because she was here, in this new life, or this place? If so, why was she unable to do magic before? Was it merely genetics?

The questions had been buzzing around Cecilia's mind so long since she had had the conversation with Ragnhild about her research that they were just now background noise, like when a person becomes accustomed to a headache that will not shift. Who would answer her questions? Were they even answerable?

She had been tempted to talk to her friend, to discuss her research further, but Ragnhild had been more than a little absent when it came to lessons, students clamouring for her to teach them so they can pass their particular exams being the main reason. Not just Professor Andersson either: other professors had been preoccupied with the demand from Strasbourg to co-operate, share and be open, an anathema to the way that the school fundamentally operated. She would have to wait.

There was one question Cecilia could answer herself, though: her own range and extent of magical ability, on an ad-hoc basis. She had something to think about at least for, if she stopped distracting herself for too long the reality of her having been returned and still remaining at Durmstrang began to seep in to her will to keep going.

Turning from the window, where the palladium-coloured waves sheeted over the sea's surface and wrapped themselves around the tower below Cecilia sighed inwardly. It still made her miserable that she was there, at Durmstrang, and not with Septimus; no real idea about Remus and how and when he would ever get well. Every night she went to sleep with thoughts of her son and her husband on her mind, knowing full well that if she were to call Caelius's bluff he almost certainly, if not definitely, have her imprisoned.

But, while she could pursue it, Cecilia had decided, fascinating though it was, she would not. While it might entertain her thoughts and make her wonder, she would stick to facts, the facts that Caelius had demanded of her, writing down precisely and lengthily the goings-on at Hedgewards. Lengthily being the operative word – give the wizard something weighty to wade through, she thought malevolently.

Turning from the window, with a gales brewing below her window (so tall the Durmstrang tower was that weather systems were visible upside down, so to speak), there was another thing on her mind. What about the potion needed for Remus? Cecilia had deliberately not involved herself in that either mainly because she trusted Severus but also because she felt too close, too close to think clearly about her once-estranged husband. Cecilia had been too close with the lycanthropy potion she had tried at in the Other Place, though she hadn't known it at the time. Perhaps if she had shared more with the Severus Snape back there he might have solved it with her, quicker, more accurately. Instead, her husband perished in Azkaban.

Cecilia rubbed her eyes, then her temples. If she could keep out of this, keep from her strength of will forcing her point with regard to Remus…she shook her head. Keep thinking about this apparent magical ability, she told herself, keep thinking about genetic connections. Then you can't be instrumental in any harm that may come as a result.

Throwing a look towards the unglazed windows, she made preparations for bed. She was ready for the next days' lessons, for those questions about chromosomal crossover that were inevitable, then afterwards, perhaps, perhaps if she didn't feel so wrung out, she would have time to see Ragnhild and add many, many leaves to ever-expanding notebook of information for her brother-in-law.

Maybe even the work within the notebooks would be disseminated amongst the reciprocators, ran her thoughts as Cecilia stared at the huge stone blocks in the near-darkness, the harshness of the cold blowing from the still-raging storm taken away by sporadic bursts of heat from the fire, perhaps they would enjoy taking apart the information within them. The burden would be on them, of course, should they decide to brand her a fool again as the work within was mere fact-reporting. Unlike the diary of hers. Fool she had been, Cecilia knew.

Oh yes, they would take it apart, right enough, Henrietta Edwards twisting it all the way.

"Ha!" Cecilia spat the word at the wall. Let them choke on it! It's a pity the Durmstrang students weren't a little like that though. The thought filtered through to her fore-mind, replacing the brooding clouds of painful evocation with that of the blank-faced students whom she would teach the next day, pushing her for detail, writing it all down, no question of validity. Oh for the days at Hogwarts, in time past, when someone would have said to her, in her guise as squib, "…but how do you know that? What proof is there…?" Probably someone like Draco Malfoy.

…Draco Malfoy…

The thought of the boy back there, now a grown-up wizard, no hint of family darkness surrounding Voldemort….Draco Malfoy the President of the Council of Wizards…

…Malfoy, who openly declared his abhorrence at the activities of Albus Dumbledore and his colleague and lover Gellert Grindelwald…Malfoy who was not the boy in Slytherin house, defended to the hilt by Severus Snape…

...Malfoy the boy who sought at every opportunity to make fun of his new Muggle Studies teacher…

European

…images of the consequence of even using the word "Muggle" here began to fill her mind…arrest, court, fine…

…and Cecilia was standing before a jury, the judge, whose face was obscured, shaking his gavel at her, remonstrating her for using the word…her mouth opened to defend herself, to say that she was only using it to describe her…someone shouting that she _could_ do magic, so she was a liar, and therefore in contempt of court…the jury, who were the reciprocators all sitting there…the Potters, the Weasleys…Sirius Black…Henrietta Edwards the prosecutor, her face contorted in mocking…Cecilia looked towards her counsel, Severus Snape…he was due to speak as her advocate…Henrietta declaring she was a liar again…

…Cecilia turned to look at Snape as each opportunity to defend her passes in silence…Cecilia felt the shock melt to confusion before giving way to hatred, not to Snape but towards the reciprocators…the jury who had begun to shout her guilt –

Anger. Cecilia, now sitting bolt upright in her bed, in her now-icy room, felt it in the pit of her stomach, dissolving away as the here-and-now penetrated her consciousness. It pulsed back as she pulled the thick, reindeer-skin bedcover over her cotton sheets, lying down again and rolling over one edge, snuffing out the draught.

Why did she feel so angry still? She stared, open-eyed into the darkness. Because all come to the surface again, the reason that she was here. But, Cecilia realised, she felt angry with Snape too. Why?

Because he hadn't defended her at the time, he had allowed Caelius's decision to return her to Durmstrang to unfold without so much as an utterance, to her knowledge. In fact, Cecilia noted bitterly, his silence was permission for it to happen.

Why?

To make her to realise where she belonged. How easy it would have been to have stopped Caelius, to save her from all of this? Was it that Snape was interested in what she would unearth too? Did he know that she would find interfering in his progress with Remus's potion irresistible?

"…to let things run their course…" Working with Snape at Hedgewards Cecilia had heard him utter these words so often...she had wanted to him on more than one occasion: for, while she was impulsive when she believed she was right, Cecilia would think about her own actions where Severus Snape did not seem to...he…let things run their course…

…but not even when the clique within the reciprocators were at their worst...Cecilia had wanted to hammer on his chest, but had imagined the triumphant curl of the lip because she had been irked by him. They had talked professionally when they had last conversed, in August, Cecilia had kept the information he had described (and more out of spite for Caelius); she had expressed her wretchedness at her foolish trusting of the reciprocators. Of some of the reciprocators.

Something, despite everything, somehow, felt…_right_. It was right she was here, not just at Durmstrang, but here and not _there_. Perhaps there had always been a shred of her that had clung to the Old Place – Cecilia felt herself comparing things _here_ so often with _there_. . In the Old Place she had cared so much about the potion, Remus's even more so than that of Harry's, and the information she had had been the direct result of her being here now even though she had pushed herself to try to unravel his lycanthropy. She had gone about declaring herself the only one who could help her husband. Remus had been killed there, clinically executed because of his lycanthropy. Surely his fate was better here?

Only marginally so, Cecilia concluded. Anyone bitten had been imprisoned as a security measure. Caelius again, using language to sanitise potentially suspect human and wizard rights breaches.

But…that feeling again. Cecilia felt sure that, if she were to crack the lycanthropy her way, not just rely on that which Snape as a young boy wizard, she was convinced it would lead her to the potion for vampirism.

And then, in her mind's eye that all evaporated, leaving behind was a nugget of purity, something, even if Cecilia were to have the rest of eternity to describe and the eloquence of a poet, she could never put into words. She would do neither. It wouldn't matter. The cogs were already in motion. Where the thought had come from Cecilia neither knew nor cared.

But, even when she got up the next morning, taught her work for the day, had a conversation with Ragnhild, waited for her to Owl her research information to her colleague from Beauxbatons who had been told to expect it under the European Council diktat, heard the wizard express the opinions of the other professors at Durmstrang who were complaining about the research transparency law foisted on them, listened to Ragnhild tell her about the competition for the European Ministry employment that her daughter Crystallia had to enter, despite all of this, Cecilia knew deep down that all this was _right_.

If only it felt right that she was away from Septimus and Remus.


	44. Endarkenment

88888888

A knock on the door, tentative but plainly sounded. Severus Snape looked up, pausing mid-annotation on the application form - the eighteenth application form - that he had read that night. References for those applying for Ministerial internships in Britain and Europe would have to wait. At half past two in the morning whoever was knocking needed his full attention.

"Enter." As he'd surmised. He had invited Septimus Lupin of course and the boy was here, late at night, with something on his mind.

Septimus looked uneasy as he walked towards the headmaster's desk. He had gone to bed early much to Julian's disgust, abandoning a game of Bottom Trumps as his friend tutted, coughed, complained that his sore throat and aching limbs had returned, and said goodnight from his bed in the busy hospital wing as he waited for Madam Pomfrey to get to him with that evening's medicine.

Septimus had then tossed and turned in the darkness in the Gryffindor dormitory, his head pounding and his skin prickling as if something was trying to get out from under it. He couldn't sleep - worry kept him from rest. Not the Astronomy test the next morning, or the fact that he had heard, as he had made his way to Professor Snape's office, Fraser Blewitt's discussion with other students on the corridor that afternoon about his chance at a job with the Ministry and how his father had got him in with the President. _ That_ was probably what was worrying him, Septimus told himself – that someone like Fraser Blewitt, an older student, who was very influential, his father had caused Septimus's father, and Sirius Black too.

"Septimus?" Snape prompted the question he knew the boy was about to ask, bringing him from his thoughts to the reason why he was there.

"I want to go to see Dad."

Septimus hadn't meant to blurt it out and he looked around nervously hoping that his directness wasn't out of turn. The silence continued and Septimus began to feel nervousness rise again, his head pounding and the sickness in his stomach begin to rise as the wizard looked at him. The longer he stood in front of Snape the worse he felt. Eventually, he opened his mouth to ask again, his time a little more politely, when the headmaster of Hedgewards shuffled the papers he was holding and put down his quill before folding his fingers together.

"It is late or, rather, early, at nearly quarter to three."

"Please, sir." Septimus ignored the desperation in his own voice. "You did say to come at any time."

"Indeed I did." Snape beckoned towards him. At least the boy had not asked about his mother, he supposed. He rose and began to walk slowly towards Septimus, peering at him momentarily. "Would you like to go now?"

Septimus inhaled, and then breathed back out. Yes. Yes he did. He nodded.

"Yes sir."

"And when we return, you'll go to bed and get some rest immediately? You don't look well."

"No sir." It was true - despite not having much rest and worrying about Dad, he'd felt restless and lethargic the night before too.

"Once I've seen Dad, I'm sure I'll feel better." Snape nodded.

"Indeed – and how will your constitution feel after flying to St. Mungo's?"

Septimus had never flown outside the castle grounds before. His Lightningshot, while outstanding, was, nevertheless, currently redundant while not playing quidditch. Besides, flying on a proper wizard's broom was something else, he knew.

And he was not to be disappointed. The dark night enveloped them as they exited a small door just underneath the previous headmasters' portraits (hitherto non-existent) which led to a narrow strip of steps which clung to the outer wall of the tower. Septimus caught his breath and looked upwards as the hem of the headmaster's robe rose higher.

When he'd caught up with the wizard (and wondering how he'd had the nerve to climb the steps that were so precariously placed) Septimus felt his eyes widen in the blackness. There, hovering two feet above the ground was a broom. And not just any broom. If it were a motorbike it would be Harley Davidson Two-Cam. If a violin then a Stradivarius. If it had been a guitar a fender MIM stradocaster.

Made in the fifteenth century, a broom of immesurable myth. Reputed to be none existing in the entire world Septimus stared as the green phosphorescent glow that made the broom's pedigree beyond doubt. Severus Snape's broom was a Broadclad, a broom of such repute, five known ever to have existed and manufactured by the wizard who, up until recently, owned the Firebolt broomstick company (and who had thrown in their lot to invest in pensieves), from whom Septimus's mother had purchased the Lightningshot none hundred and ninety nine.

Broadclads were made from oaks felled from Fiveoaks, a magical site just outside modern-day Reading, planted by the great wizard Henghist himself upon his accession to the Wizengamot as Great High Wizard, hardened in over a hundred years of harsh mediaeval winters where the wood hardened and thickened. Had it not been right before his eyes, this legendary warhorse, whose legend was without measure, Septimus would not have believed it, as it was reputed there were none left in existence.

Septimus stared. These were the brooms that changed battle into game or, rather, battle into battle limited by Quidditch rings, bludgers, quaffles and snitches, his father had explained, large and heavy the Broadclad was the one most sought for its might and stealth.

"Grip the handle," instructed Snape, halting Septimus's recall of the history of all things Qudditchly, "then climb on. It shouldn't fly off without me."

Nervously, and trying to forget the word "shouldn't", Septimus mounted the broom. He could feel the huge weight of the thing under his hand and his nerve held just to the point that the headmaster got astride too and he could grip his robes.

"Up." Snape leaned forward and gripped the end of the broom, putting all of his shoulders and chest into a deep push down. The force was tremendous. Had Septimus not thought to hold tighter he would have been thrust backwards off the thing, and it rose like a huge animal unleashed from a cage. They began to spiral clockwise, the luminescent trail swirling below and then, with a swiftness which belay its vastness the broom shot into the sky. Before Septimus knew they were shooting through the dark, starlit sky, their iridescent wake shedding behind them.

Below, through the greenness emanating behind them patches of light that he could only think must be tiny Scottish villages such as Hogsmeade but it wasn't until there was a glow beneath them that Septimus realised, such the acceleration of the thing had been, he had his eyes clamped tightly shut, for the glow was London, the Thames outline picked out in lights, with the Wheel and the Houses of Parliament just behind.

It took less than five minutes for Snape to land on the roof of the wizard hospital and, with a pair of quivery legs Septimus dismounted, his legs enveloped momentarily by a puff of green gaseousness, illuminated by the full moon's light. Shivering, and with one backwards glance, and a fleeting realisation that he'd just flown on a piece of history, Septimus followed Severus Snape down the steps from the roof and into the hospital.

88888888

"It's heartbreaking to see." Bathsheba Braddle rotated her index finger as the spoon in her tea slowly stirred as she watched Septimus Lupin carefully pick up his father's limp hand. Snape looked at her and nodded.

"I wonder if there is any hope."

"Of course there's hope," Snape nodded towards the bubble-like window that he had created from the sitting room of Grimmauld Place, the light and airy Reciprocator headquarters. He had suggested the one-way link to the boy and he'd agreed to walk towards the door to indicate when he was ready to leave.

"Indeed, indeed," replied Bathsheba quickly. "How goes the potion, Severus?" Several pairs of eyes were on him now, including Benjamin Wergs, Sturgis Podmore, the Potters and Molly Weasley. It was a kind of impromptu meeting involving whoever was around, but the most important was time, not just for Septimus and Remus, but also for Snape to observe.

"Slowly. That is to say, methodically slow. Both of our dear friends are in a critical state; Sirius less so – his blood pressure is high, a result of my medication, and it should drop with time. Which is why he is tired, as you've observed Molly, when you've gone to visit him." He looked towards Molly Weasley, who nodded in confirmation. "He too is concerned I am not doing enough for Remus. And I know he has asked you, James, for some work to be getting on with."

"I gave him the transcripts of the European Council meetings involving Hermione Grainger, Robert Penwright, Vincento Vincento and Draco Malfoy that we shouldn't have in our possession whatsoever at all – " James arched his eyebrow and the corner of his mouth curled a little, "all three hundred pages of them. He knows, he knows, I told him about Henrietta," James continued quickly, anticipating the question. "It came as something of a shock. And, for once, he was quite happy to do some of this; Merlin knows we need the time in the field for these growing Conjurist attacks." Murmurs of agreement followed from the (number-reduced) Reciprocators.

"However, if I do not succeed with something for Remus, if nothing is done soon – " Snape cast a look round the room getting back to the original point, " – his organs will fail and he will die." He felt the panic around him rather than hear or see it. Bathsheba had stopped stirring her tea; Benjamin had frozen as if cursed by Petrificus Totalus. Molly gripped her husband's hand and James leaned forward towards Lily, who did utter a noise, like a mouse being squashed by a lead door. Her face was etched with concern and urgency. Snape answered her unspoken questions.

"I am best placed, of course. You've said it yourself, Lily." He looked at her and her face grew more urgent, "you've told me before that if I could devise a potion to help Remus then I can do it now, and I can. It's whether he'll still be alive for it to be of any use to him."

"And Septimus? We're hearing a lot of young wizards at Hedgewards are getting ill, Severus." It was Bathsheba's turn to look worried, her little features stood proud of her round, squashy face and her eyebrows knitted. "We cannot be having this for our young people," she added, in her melodious Welsh voice. Snape looked away from the scene on the basement ward of St. Mungo's, at Septimus Lupin stroking his father's hand as a nurse changed his catheter and nodded his head silently in acknowledgement.

"He has been under the weather, it is true, but I do feel that will pass. He is concerned with his father, and that of a friend of his who is also ill. Yes, there are some of the students who appear to have come down with some sort of illness. It is still September, of course."

"Bug month," interpreted James, who was still holding Lily's shoulder and stroking it gently as she stared towards the portal, at Septimus, who seemed to be talking to his father now, as a nurse came to take Remus's pulse.

"Indeed." Snape glanced at his colleague. "Children arriving at schools from all over the country, and indeed, this year, from non-wizard institutions too. Infections of all kinds spread themselves around and mutate through a new crop of less robust immune systems. It's too early to see if there's a pattern, however."

Sturgis Podmore, who had been otherwise engaged leafing through some parchments on the table behind the Potters looked up.

"Are you sure? What does Caelius say?" The pause that followed was not only pregnant, it was full term, with twins.

"Caelius has been otherwise engaged with the Council," said Snape eventually. "I have of course, sent him a message; he is aware of the situation."

The council. Severus Snape knew that his co-head of the Reciprocators, despite being such, was wedded to the government of the country. He could see it now: the Mullens, their feet up on the table, taking in the briefing in a laissez faire manner in the hope of winding up Mr Lupin senior; Peaceable Furnace scribbling notes and dispatching others via post imps for immediate action from junior staff members of his department while Anaxagoras Tring looked over his shoulder and made his own notes. Jane Jones would be peering over her spectacles waiting for any slight inconsistency that may pass Caelius's lips, pursing her own and requesting clarification. Hervert Herbert interrupting every now and then to give his own bitter appraisal of the situation. A smile curled at Snape's lip at the thought of Caelius's silent frustration at the Minister for Defence. The Lestranges ignoring all around them, but taking in every word…

"It's just getting so terrible," sighed Lily, nodding her head. "These attacks…" she cast her eyes back towards the scene in the hospital. Septimus was holding Remus's hand and talking to him softly about school, and getting to the hospital by Broadclad.

"Do we have any news about Tabitha?" All eyes returned to Snape. There was a pause. Sturgis, as the cousin of the Penwrights, had been against Tabitha Penwright undertaking work behind the veil, not least because Snape had had a hand in it. Not that he disliked the wizard – every one of the Reciprocators knew that he respected Severus Snape's ability and talent – but that his cousin had been so closely connected to him; that they had been engaged and called it off…despite her insistence it had been her doing. "Breen came two nights ago with enquiries about an update from Robert," he qualified.

Tabitha. The thought of her had passed through Snape's mind earlier that evening, when Caelius had briefed him too on that which he had shared with the council, namely the positions over the last few hours of the sporadic and apparently random attacks on non-magic persons the length and breadth of the country, names of suspects and the increase in Aurors in monitoring the situation that night. While listening to Caelius's report, perfectly delivered as it was, and would be later to the council, he could not put the Mysteriour out of his mind.

What would she think about the events? Goblins shoring up money; people – wizards with tentative links to Conjurists wanting equality for magical creatures; the submission of a formal proposal to further expand on the experiment that had seen the introduction of magical creatures into Britain from Strasbourg, in both widening the range of beasts and length of time over which it is carried out. Tomorrow night would be when the Reciprocators would hear it from Caelius.

"Nothing more." Snape shook his head, glancing momentarily to Sturgis and holding his gaze.

"She is doing her work, Sturgis," said James wearily. "Tabitha even came here to tell us, in that enthusiastic manner of hers." Bathsheba Braddle grinned, nodding too. "Would you have her doing anything other than what she lives to do?" She waited, and watched the wizard pause, before shaking his head briefly.

"Besides," continued Bathsheba, changing the subject, her jovial manner giving way to severe sobriety, "whatever Caelius tells us tomorrow, we're far too thinly spread as it is."

"All we've been doing is papering over the cracks," interjected Benjamin Wergs, shaking his head, the matter one which he had raised time after time for several months. "We are supporting the Ministry to the best of our ability, but for how long? We're stretched so thin, trying to smooth the community divisions across the country, between wizards and non-wizards?"

"How long will it continue is a question we'd all like to know the answer to," interjected Sturgis sombrely, shaking his head, "I mean, we all have a right to some idea about what the Ministry's intentions are. Ben's right, we can't be expected to keep this up indefinitely."

"Till Walpurgis Night," Snape muttered, turning his head towards the view at St. Mungo's

"Huh! Well you didn't have to be so damned flippant, Snape!" protested Sturgis, folding his arms crossly. "You might as well have asked how long a piece of string!"

"Er, what?" Arthur Weasley's brow creased as he tried to understand what the Headmaster of Hedgewards and Sturgis Podmore were saying. It had indeed been a long night. Several long nights, with long days in between,"

"He doesn't know how long, dear," sighed Molly Weasley, placing a hand softly on her husband's shoulder. "You know…"

"Twice the distance from middle to end," said Benjamin, his frustration giving way to mischief. "Unless you mean the real Walpurgis Nigt, that some European witch festival?" Bathsheba nudged him, nearly making him spill his tea, and whispered, "Nerd!"

"I am merely repeating Caelius's words," explained Snape, his attention now back with the Reciprocators, "and yes, my apologies Sturgis, if you thought I was being flippant. Indeed, I do not believe the Ministry does know. Perhaps it's a question you may wish to put to him yourself tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow?" Sturgis's brow creased as he sought for memories that he knew were there, somewhere, if only he knew where. "Tomorrow…"

"The meeting, to be briefed on the Ministry's progress," Snape explained slowly.

"Yes. Of course." Sturgis looked abashed. "My turn to apologise Snape."

"None needed. Now, if you'll all excuse me, I think there's a boy who I need to return to Hedgewards before the night is over."

"I was about to say," said Lily, dragging her eyes away from the scene too. "Oh, I do hope it's managed to make him feel better, Severus," she added as the wizard walked over to the image, holding aloft his wand before making the hospital ward, Remus Lupin and his son shrink to a thin wisp of light and feeding itself into the tip. "We'll be seeing you tomorrow night then?" Snape nodded.

"And is there any news about the Ministry post? For Sam, I mean?" Lily put a hand on Snape's sleeve. "I know you can't discuss it, really…" Snape looked at her, his brow furrowing.

"For the sake of equity I will not say whether he has a better chance or that he hasn't. He has represented himself well and I have put my best case on his behalf." Snape put his other hand over hers and patted it . "He has a strong case, Lily, and he is up against 3 others for the only British place." Lily craned her neck to look at James, who smiled at his wife.

"You mustn't pester Severus, Lily. He's doing his best." James looked at Snape and mouthed the word "Sorry". "Everyone's done the best they can." Lily's beseeching expression gave way to comprehension; she nodded, before glancing back at the place where the image-portal had been. "His work experience will go in his favour," James continued.

"Undoubtedly," agreed Snape, before adding, "now I really must be getting along. I have a young man who is no doubt keen on taking to the skies on the Broadclad."

On the back of said broomstick Septimus began to go over the visit to his father again. It was good that Snape had left him; he felt grown up, although not in an altogether privileged way that sometimes feeling grown up felt like. It was more like being weighted down by something, as if learning and having fun was just a brief memory. Now, accelerating into the night, as a pinkish glow in the east began to underline the blanket of stars Septimus felt that he wasn't ready to feel like that at all. Next time, he'd ask Snape to stay – it wasn't like there was anything he wanted to tell Dad that he didn't mind the headmaster hearing.

It was what he'd _wanted_ to tell his dad as he'd sat by his bedside, that all would be OK, that mum would be with them and they would all be together again as a family which felt particularly burdensome. Since he couldn't be sure of any of that he'd instead just reached towards his father's ashen hand, limp and clammy as he lay there, unmoving, and told him quietly that he loved him before waiting there quietly, telling him some things he'd done and how he felt at school (and not feeling at all silly, as he'd imagined he would feel) before Snape had ushered him away.

A healer had come to tend him just as Septimus was leaving, wiping his brow before unhooking the intravenous drip, and a pang of agony penetrated his stomach. he wished he could stay longer, he wished there was something he could do. He wished mum was around too; she would make him feel better - she always did, and he imagined her working away on some chemical experiment which would turn out to be a potion for Dad, doing what she could for him, however remote the chance that it would actually work. Mum never gave up hope and, as Snape led him to the thick oak doors that marked the end of the hospital ward and the stairwell between floors, he wished, as he looked at the empty bed where the now-well Sirius Black had lain, he could have said the same of himself

Snape delivered him back to the door of the Gryffindor common room. He had said very little to Septimus but now turned to him and lowered his head.

"Anytime you wish to visit your father, you know where to find me." Septimus nodded. How strange he thought as he felt himself nodding, that he was standing here in the strange autumn morning half-light, he had been delivered back to school by his headmaster having visited his very ill dad, rather than, like a lot of students who would be getting up in a couple of hours, not giving their families a second thought as they got up, breakfasted, chatted to friends, thought up an excuse as to why they hadn't done their homework for their first lesson. He yawned, shielding his mouth with his hand.

"Yes, sir," Septimus nodded again, feeling the exhilaration of their journey home, with the dawn hinting on its appearance to their right as they charged north on Snape's ancient, magnificent broom.

"I will explain your absence to Professor Exe; you must use your time to rest, Septimus," he added,a tone in his voice reminding Septimus of the time Snape had found him reading "The Story That Never Was" in Grimmauld Place's library and he found himself nodding fervently.

Snape watched him go, standing by the common room door as the frame of the Fat Lady's portrait swung back into position. He stared at it a little longer, thinking a thought about Septimus's heritage once again and wondering whether a morning off was enough – he was Remus Lupin's son, after all, before turning and making his way down the steps towards the Grand Staircase and out of the castle into the early morning dawn.

Septimus had written to Cecilia, responding to the letter she had written to him, flawed as it had been and infused with emotion. His instinct had been to ask her about her evidence for what constituted non-wizards in a wizard environment but, knowing that she wouldn't take it well, had merely asked her scientific interpretation for her findings. He had surmised himself, of course, that non-wizards would be receiving magical energy and a measure of power, and channelling it.

Cecilia thought she could do magic and, if she thought about it rationally, which she was, of course, more than capable of analysing the situation for herself without having to seek the reassurance of her former work colleague. As long as she didn't let her emotions rule her. He must not antagonise her, much as he wished to engage in debate for to marginalise her and isolate her would be something he knew he would regret. But there was something which had occurred to him as they had travelled back to Hedgewards, which is why he was making his way at 5 o'clock in the morning such that it was to the school greenhouses.

88888888

"Tired?" Septimus, making his way across the carpet stopped in his haze of drowsiness.

"Yep." He turned.

"Late night?" Rufus Lestrange, his dark hair bouncing around his face as he grinned at Septimus.

"Late early morning."

"Want to play Bottom Trumps?"

"No thanks, Rufe,"

"OK then." Rufus turned back towards the book he was reading, nodding his head as if listening to music as he opened it. That was the thing about Rufus Lestrange: he never asked for explanations, he just accepted people as they were, he didn't expect Septimus to justify why he wasn't in bed.

"Rufe?"

"Yes?" Septimus yawned, knowing Julian wouldn't be really up to a visit from the young Lestrange boy, but never mind.

"Would you like to come later to see Julian? We can all play Bottom Trumps then?"

"Ace." Rufus half nodded towards him, sticking up a thumb and grinning beneath his curly locks.

Ace, thought Septimus to himself. Who said that anymore? And who accompanied by a thumbs-up? It was beyond bizarre. It was…

…Septimus made his way up the steps and put his hand on the dormitory door knob…

…it was uniquely…

…there was his bed, oh how blissful to sink into it, for his weariness to melt away…he flopped onto it…

…uniquely…

…Septimus closed his eyes, fleeting images of the Broadclad, Snape, his Dad, the dawn rising, the absence of his mum, St. Mungo's filling his head…

…uniquely Rufus.

88888888

The letters in Snape's cloak had not been lost on his journey with Septimus. Uncharacteristically he checked, making sure the post, that had arrived shortly before Septimus, had not inadvertently fluttered down to earth like confetti as they'd flown, not least because he would have some explaining to do to the European Council as to why the exchange of information from Hedgewards to the European schools was somewhat one sided so far.

Neville Longbottom was tending a tendril of what turned out to be a shepherd's purse plant or, as Neville explained, capsella bursta-pastoris, as the tiny heart-shaped pods containing the seeds of the plants effected the name.

"Or where they should be," he explained, pocketing his letter without a second glance, gently lowering the leaf-stalk studded with the tiny capsules as if it was the arm of a most-adored lover. Snape leaned in looking at the tiny dots glinting in the early morning sun.

"Tell me," Snape cleared his throat. "As I understand it, and of course you know Professor Longbottom, that my knowledge of the botanical world, magical or otherwise is somewhat dwarfed by your own, the small pods, the purses, pop to distribute the plant's seeds? A pressure build up? Like pea plants?"

"Pisum sativum," nodded Neville, making no comment as to his knowledge or that of Snape's. "Similar. Peas are of the family "Fabaceae"…legumes, of course, the shepherd's purse of brassicaceae. But in principle, yes." Neville bent his head lower, scooping up a branchlet and holding it towards the headmaster. Snape peered lower. It appeared that some of the pods were glittering.

"Do you know why this plant is so perfect?" Neville looked at the plant lovingly, running his hand up the stem. "Genetically, the variety of genes that are expressed is vast – " he looked at Snape. "Were it to be human, Snape, you would be keen on investigating its potential with regard to potions research…" Neville Longbottom looked back to the plant. "But, from my point of view, there is so much more scope with plants…"

"Why do the seeds glint? And why is some part of it white? Disease?" Neville glanced down at another branchlet before turning to Snape.

"Well, that is a question, isn't it? The main question about this plant in particular!" His tone suggested that Snape was in on the humour or the irony and Snape smiled patiently.

"If you would indulge me, Professor Longbottom?"

"Well," Neville held out a small section of the wildflower weed. "You see here? No glinting." Snape looked down, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinised the small triangular pod. "And here?" The other pod seemed to shimmer. Neville crushed it in his hand, and the other too, revealing tiny glitter-like dots within the latter.

"My usual samples of shepherd's purse, ones I usually work with, are of a magical strain. As I said, the range of genes is diverse so it is versatile."

"But this plant is…?"

"One which is a normal plant, that is to say a randomly-selected example of a non-magical bursta-pastoris."

"It is growing glittery seeds – "

" – money for the purses!" interjected Neville, laughing.

" – indeed," nodded Snape patiently, "but it is also dying." He waited for Neville Longbottom to finish laughing at his own observation of the magical seeds being actually made of gold to fit in the purses, and the Herbology Professor regained his composure and nodded in agreement.

"This plant is attempting to emulate the magical variety, but it only did that when I planted it in their vicinity."

"Symbiosis?"

"No they live independently. They are called companion plants, and some beneficial effects from each taking a useful property of the other go in their favour, evolutionally speaking. So, for example, when the wizard children burst the pods to find the gold to spend, shaking the rest on the floor as they go, they assist in seed distribution. The non-magical variety benefit from emulating this. The magical variety benefit from not being totally wiped out from over-enthusiastic children."

"But, the interesting thing," continued Neville, pacing around the greenhouse and examining another plant, "the effect remains for a time, even when the magical plant is pulled up."

"Fascinating," agreed Snape.

"They seem to have some sort of vibrational signature, which changes when they are in contact with one another. I've been thinking, what do you think, Severus?" He stared up sharply at Snape and stared at him. "The sorting hat – do you consider that people have a similar vibrational interaction with their environment? The botanical one is well documented but I have yet to find substantial evidence in current research for a transferable effect in wizards or non-wizards…"

"…because if there was, and it was altered, this is perhaps why the sorting hat refused to sort some of the pupils. Perhaps on a molecular level, it did not, or could not, or would not detect them?"

Neville left the question hanging and continued with his tending of his plants, making sure the Venus Fly Traps did not take the tips of his fingers with their dipteral breakfast.

"Or it could have just been being grumpy," said Snape, half to himself. His Herbology professor had given him a lot to think about but, before he left the greenhouse he proposed one other question to Neville Longbottom.

"How do you feel about wizards and non-wizards? In comparison to plants, I mean?"

"As I said, it's not much different with plants, even for non-wizards. They seem to be enjoying it, settling in here, especially those who seem to be able to do magic."

"Seem? What do you mean, seem?" There was a long pause; only the sound of pouring water could be heard, Neville watering the Yuckers (big-leaved varieties of yucca plants that licked you if you got too close and covered you with sticky slime)

"Well, why I love these bursta-pastoris plants so much, is that they are the exception, rather than the rule. Their seeds really do turn into gold, and their frailty as a result is limited. Most non-magical varieties do not survive. They display several of the significant qualities of their counterparts but, as a result, barely last any time at all. It's as if the magic is concentrated into something brilliant for them, but the cost is their health, and ultimately their lives." Neville looked up from filling up his watering can from the rain-butt at the door entrance. "It is theoretical, but I do hope Professor Hoppe from Beauxbatons has sent me some results from her experiments." He tapped his robe where he had slipped in the letter that Snape had given to him. "It would seem that, should a lot of these plants be removed before the critical time that she calls x, the non-magical plants make a complete recovery. After…" Neville shook his head sadly before looking up quickly, uncertainty etched on his face.

"I do apologise, headmaster. Here you are, coming to deliver the post, and there I am, going on."

"No indeed," Snape countered, "as with all of your work, it is most fascinating, Neville." And to himself added, "most fascinating. Now, perhaps, might be the right time to allow the students to remain on the right side of x.

88888888

The veil, deep in the Department of Mysteries, in its physical form, forced itself to bunch all its energy together. The material out of which its interface between its inner being and the world, moved slightly. A sudden breeze could have done better. But it was there, it knew, it existed now. And, though the experiment was at best, weak and pathetic, nevertheless it had caused something to happen.

Someone was trespassing. Something had to be done. If its feelings could be described, something not to dissimilar to annoyance would be the adjective.

Someone had tried to control it before. It had resisted. It would resist again.


	45. The Friends

Septimus yawned as Professor Crowfoot finished the "Occlumency/Debating" lesson. No-one knew which it actually was but, Septimus had thought as the keen Professor had kept the lesson going for four and a half hours, slowing his speech and then quickening his pace when he got even more excited about prose, that the lesson should be called, "how to make sure no-one knows actually what you're talking about".

He couldn't help it: despite being mid-October with a bitter wind seemingly having caught the castle in its sweeping embrace the classroom in which the students were being drowned with loving fervour was hot and humid and the previous night's visit to his dad was only adding to his exhaustion. He yawned again, looking down and thinking of his visit to Julian that evening before glancing at the page beneath his pen, the majority of which had been filled with graffiti.

"My wee lesson too boring for ye?" In his Airdrie accent, almost as incomprehensible as the lesson, Struan Crowfoot tutted as the lesson neared its end dropping a parcel of work in front of Septimus. He quickly curled the edge of the page over on itself to hide the silent reply to his teacher and looked away as Crowfoot loomed over, eyeing him doubtfully (or perhaps, if the occlumency had worked suspiciously). Stifling another yawn, Septimus gathered up the work that the wizard had dropped in front of him; thinking of what Julian would say when he brought him yet more work as he fought for a reply but the professor had swept past to another desk muttering something as he dropped another parcel in front of another student.

Septimus looked around as his teacher circulated around the still-hot classroom (despite the coolness of the air from the corridor outside rushing in), wondering if any of his classmates, wizard or not, had understood any of it. By the looks on faces, nudges and shakings of heads maybe not. It probably didn't matter – the keener the Professor had been about the subject, even the non-wizard adjustments he'd made in the "Debating" section, the broader his accent had become until it was as if he were talking in a foreign language. On top of that, the subject too, that his brain had simply switched off, and he'd tried not to think anything about the lesson at all –

- ha! Perhaps the best defence to legilimency! The thought struck him as he hurried, laden with work for, " – an ye a fessin' nex wik ye - " which, after listening to the conversations around him, Septimus had deduced that there was some sort of test for which the notes he'd written that lesson were almost entirely useless.

Stepping out of the classroom the coldness of the outer corridor enveloped his face and he smiled, not least because the lesson was over, but also because, he realised, he felt quite happy. He'd told mum as much and, unlike in previous letters, Septimus realised he actually meant it this time. Maybe he'd got used to being at Hedgewards; maybe just a good feeling about Dad –although there was no basis for it: Dad had just been there, asleep, unconscious, being treated with the allium sativum solution – maybe –

"Phew, glad that's over!" Behind him, Darren had caught him up, shaking his head and grinning too. "What're you up to?"

"Going to see Julian," Septimus replied, waving the parchment that Professor Crowfoot had given to him.

"Oh," nodded Darren, "only I was wondering if you'd wanted to come for a fly. The pitch is free tonight."

"No, sorry. Not before tea, anyway." He held up the work for his friend. Darren nodded, his usual impassive face clouding a little. Darren was as serious as anyone could be about Quidditch and he took every opportunity to practice. He hadn't seen Julian since for two days though, and it was unfair of him to leave him visitorless again.

"It's OK. Will you come tomorrow? I'd rather like someone to fly with me, and practice."

"I'll come." Septimus nodded, glancing past Darren and realising Rufus Lestrange had joined them without making a sound, a great talent, Julian had once wryly observed. It was as if he'd just been dropped next to them out of thin air, no noise whatsoever betraying his passage.

"Me too," added Septimus and Darren smiled. It was funny how Darren had become friends with them both following his defence of Julian to Blewitt and subsequetly meeting his challenge. The boy fitted in, as did Rufus Lestrange who, as they walked along the corridor caught them up, silently tagging along with wherever it was they were going. But there were limits: Rufus's almost complete inability to see that he was useless at flying whatsoever being one of them. While he felt sorry for Rufus and his complete lack of any social skills whatsoever Septimus felt worse for Julian, however, stuck in a hospital bed, though the ward had been getting a little emptier, partly from recoveries, partly because of some students going home, a few of the non-wizards had at any rate; Julian had been keeping a forensic eye on the proceedings and coming up with several conspiracy theories as to their disappearance. Septimus knew it was probably because his friend was bored and had felt rather bad that he'd felt too tired the day before after visiting Dad. He also hoped Darren wouldn't mention about the next day's planned flying - his broom hadn't quite recovered from shock since the last time he borrowed it.

"Off to see Julian," Septimus explained. "You coming?" Darren nodded and, after a brief pause, so did Rufus.

"So what work do you reckon old Crowfoot has for him?" Darren asked Septimus as they walked along the ever-filling corridor towards the courtyard. "I wonder, if we read it, perhaps we can understand it before our test!"

"Test? What test?" Rufus frowned as they walked together over the damp flagstones.

"The one that Crowfoot said we'd have next lesson."

"No..." There was a pause, as if Rufus was running through something in his head. "No," he said, sounding definite. "He didn't say anything about a test. He said not to worry about much and that we'll understand it next week."

"He did?" Septimus sounded doubtful.

"Sure," said Rufus.

"And you understand him?" asked Darren, incredulously.

"He said, "an ye a fessin' nex wik ye," ", said Rufus. "He said not to worry. I just asked him, 'cos that's what I thought too. He said we weren't to fuss."

"Well, that's OK then," said Darren. "We can play exploding snap with him then."

"Or Bottom Trumps," agreed Septimus, "or – "

"The pines, Rufus said, chopping in with something completely unrelated and adopting the faraway air of a person on a different plane of existence, albeit temporarily. The friends had begun to get used to Rufus now. Darren leaned back and looked at Septimus, grinning but shaking his head at the same time. "Well, you can let Julian listen," said Septimus with a grin, "perhaps that'll stop him from throwing up!"

They made their way up to the second floor, the autumn sunlight slicing through the clouds. As they turned the corner they almost bumped into a group of girls, Ro Robinson, Gertrude Goldsmith and Ariella Blewitt. When they saw the boys they turned to one another scuttling away giggling.

"What was that about?" asked Darren, frowning after them.

"No idea." Septimus looked after them too. "I wonder – "

"You wonder...what– ?" He turned back, but before Darren could pursue his friend's thought process he banged into something. Septimus jerked his head round.

"Blewitt!" The older boy was blocking their path. Darren's tone had changed to angry indignation from absent curiosity.

"Don't!" screamed Septimus albeit silently. "You mustn't stand up to him!" He looked at the face of his friend: Darren too knew to restrain himself and he was doing it, but only just.

"Don't want to make it public, eh, D…d…d…Darren?" The older student craned his neck down to First Year height. Darren, to his credit, said nothing, but didn't move. He stared back steelily at Fraser Blewitt while his two cronies lumbered round the corner too smirking at the three first years. Blewitt held up a hand. Septimus glanced at Darren. It had been a few weeks back, at Quidditch practice, that he'd too noticed that which taunt sought to highlight. "Come to find more rebels?"

"Excuse us, you're in our way." Septimus forced the assertiveness into his words as he placed a hand on Darren's shoulder. Just in time too – it had contained the explosion that might otherwise have happened. Blewitt frowned slightly for a moment, before bursting into mocking laughter.

"Come on, lads," he said, beckoning over his shoulder for the two trainee wizards most likely to get a job in wrestling. "We'll leave these little shrimp to their f…f…fun." Darren jerked his head in their wake, and Septimus put his hand back on his friend's shoulder. He'd never seen a blacker, more furious face. It took a few moments before Darren attempted to speak. His voice was wavery, as if it was taking all of his effort to keep his anger in.

"Oh, and by the way," Frser Blewitt turned his head and called after them, "tell that..._friend_...of yours to stay away from Ariella." The older boys strode off, laughing.

"If…if I ever see him again…and if it's a dark night…and he's on his own – " Darren shook his head, his rage now ebbing a little, " – Merlin help him!"

"Come on," said Septimus, wondering what Blewitt meant about rebels and his sister, "forget him. Exploding Snap, remember?"

It wasn't long before Julian had been looking progressively worse, seemed to be weaker than he had been a few days before. Madam Pomfrey had even talked to him about the possibility of going home to improve. Julian said that he had told the "Magical Nurse" (as he had begun to call Poppy Pomfrey) that he had written to his mum and dad and they said the best place for him to be was in school. If the school hospital can't cure him, his mum had written, nothing would.

Septimus had been taken aback with bluntness of his parents but it was from his mother that Julian had inherited his pragmatic nature and dry sense of humour. Nevertheless, for his friend to share the fact he had written home with them meant that he was worried.

"Brought you something," Septimus said, changing the subject. They'd found a few chairs in the now half-empty hospital wing, one for each of them and had arranged them around Julian's bed ready to play cards for sweets. As Darren shuffled the cards (they sparked) Septimus unfolded the work bundle from their last lesson and gave Julian back his biology homework about DNA and hereditary.

"A "B+"". Julian craned his neck to decipher the grade. "Well, looks like Professor Huggy-Bear liked some of it. What did you get, Darren?" Julian nudged him, chuckled, then coughed hard. Darren looked down at what their teacher, John Huxley-Baird, had scrawled on his. Septimus smiled, feeling a tinge of angst. He missed his friend in their lessons. He'd been there with Septimus at their tiny school near Penrith, when Septimus had not spoken to anyone for the first week. Julian had shown him his rock collection. Septimus had opened up to Julian about his estranged family. "Strange family, more like," Julian has said. It had made Septimus laugh, and that was that.

""B+" as well."

It turned out that both Septimus and Rufus (after a bit of questioning) had also achieved the same grade and it had prompted Darren to wonder if the teacher had in fact bothered to read them.

"I put in about us being related," said Rufus.

"Us?" Darren furrowed his brow, "Oh yes of course. Your mum is dad's cousin."

Darren, the younger brother of Dudley Black, was far more talented on the quidditch pitch, judging by the fact that the latter had only once turned up for a trial in his fourth year - Darren had been uncharacteristically chatty one evening shortly after the quidditch near-wand up [like a punch up, but wizard style] - but, Darren had described, had never been good enough for the Gryffindor team. Nevertheless, Dudley was ploughing the fields of PP-commerce and Darren clearly looked up to him, following as Dudley was in Regulus's business-hungry footsteps. Sirius, it turned out, with philanthropic leanings, had succumbed, more or less, to what he deserved. At least in Grandfather Phineas Black's opinion. Septimus had since found out that Darren's uncle Sirius called his dad Moony, because that's what he did on last day of school from the top of the astronomy, trousers missing presumed on a quidditch flagpole. He'd never told Septimus that he stuttered though, nor had shown any signs of it.

"Yes. I thought it was mean of Fraser Blewitt to make fun of you." Septimus looked at Rufus, dragging his mind away from his internal tangential train of thought. "You stammered like that when you were younger, and now, hardly at all." He was about to say something to Rufus about perhaps not needing to mention it now when Julian shuffled up the bed, and said, "Really?"

"Oh yes. He only spoke properly when he was seven," Rufus continued, blithely. "But he could play all positions in Quidditch by then, too." Septimus looked at Darren, whose face had begun to blacken, but then it lightened, and he shrugged. Rufus never meant anything maliciously and Septimus was getting used to it.

"We met Fraser Blewitt and his lot as we came." Septimus filled in the gap for Julian.

"Makes sense. Perhaps he was looking for his sister."

"Ariella?" Septimus frowned. He'd seen her go off with her friends before her brother had turned up. But then, what was it that Fraser Blewitt had said about keeping their friend away from his sister?

"Yes. Kept hanging around by me and Bones McCoy - " Julian waved a clammy, thin arm towards the hospital's life-sized model skeleton. Bit weird, actually."

"She is," agreed Darren, shuffling a chair nearer to Julian's bed. "You got the cards then?" he added, lowering his voice. Madam Pomfrey strictly forbade games in the hospital: too many opportunities to get over-excited, she'd said. He carefully extracted both Exploding Snap and Bottom Trumps from between his pair of pillows and handed them to Darren

"Changing the subject, thanks for this," he said, gesturing to the book, "Magical Plants." "Most interesting – did you know that there's a type of lichen that completely disappears when some spells are cast and they take the spell and it can move."

"No, I didn't know that. But it does sound interesting," nodded Septimus as Darren shuffled the Bottom Trumps cards. "When we get back to Helvellyn, we can try it."

"_You_ can," said Julian, dully, looking sadly at Septimus for a moment. "I can't do magic, not properly. You won't get me believing that just because I go to a magical school and suddenly I can do magic, not like some of these dolts here do," he gestured around the room at his companions as Darren dealt out the cards onto the bed into four neat piles. "You can, though, Septimus."

"You can't though," Darren reminded him, "you can't do magic outside school." Septimus nodded.

"Of course," Septimus nodded, and glanced at Julian, before taking a few steps back – Julian had chosen that moment to be sick all down the side of his bed.

"Yuck!" said Darren, turning away. "Can't believe you've just done that, Rocky." Julian leaned back up and looked at Darren, his eyes narrowing slightly for a moment before closing them and sagging. He really did look ill, thought Septimus, even after Darren's jibe, first uttered on the Hogwarts Express, used now in fraternal affection. Julian flopped back and closed his eyes again and Septimus passed him the water glass on the table next to the bed.

No-one spoke for a few minutes. A house elf had appeared and caused the pile of vomit to disappear from the floor before whisking away the top blanket from Julian's bed, cards and all. Darren was about to protest but Madam Pomfrey had chosen that moment to oversee the cleanliness of their environs. After tutting at the mess, chiding the house-elf (who had apparently been brought up from the kitchens to help in the ever-growing number of patients) offering what could have been construed as comforting words to Julian she took away the bedcover before any of the boys could issue protest.

"You'll be all right, Mr. Scott." Madam Pomfrey shooed the hapless elf out of the way and finished the job while declaring her opinion. But Septimus didn't think so despite the nurse's authoritative commandment.

"I reckon they need to tell the teachers," breathed Julian, sagging back onto his pillow when Madam Pomfrey left, "that that's what we think about their parcels of work."

"Too right," Darren watched the back of Madam Pomfrey as she left with his Trumps cards before delving into his pocket for the pack of exploding snap, "it makes me sick every day and I'm not even in here." Septimus felt himself smile momentarily as a pang of sadness for his friend's situation passed over him. He was about to point out if he'd been a little more accurate projectally-speaking, he might have got out of Occlumency homework altogether. He was just wondering what Julian's parents had to say when Rufus, who seemed to be attuned to music in another plane of reality began nodding his head, although Septimus wondered whether anyone could be sure what he was agreeing to.

"So, what's new in Hedgewards then?" asked Julian, watching as Darren started their game. "What's your Uncle Kay brought to the place this week?"

"Not Uncle Kay," began Septimus, winning the first round, the little pile of cards on Julian's rucked-up bedding.

"The European Parliament has told the teachers they've got to do loads more work. It's all over the PP," Rufus continued seamlessly (and unnervingly), fishing out his portable pensieve from his pocket and calling up the newspage of "Daily Prophet" before passing it to Julian as Darren re-dealt the cards. Julian glanced at the brilliant light, nodded, before flopping his hand towards his friend, returning it.

"'s right though. You thought they might have not been bothered about work if they have to work with teachers at other schools - " he looked at Julian's pucely-decorated homework, "but no. Also, more people in here," Septimus continued, "and less in class. Not good, really. The teachers really notice you when the classroom's half empty."

"And then there's those going round with the Cs on their arms'," added Rufus, nodding as was his way, to non-existent music, "but only in biro, and swearing the M-word to the non-wizards..." The world stopped. Septimus opened his mouth to protest but Darren had got there first, nudging Rufus hard in the stomach. Rufus's face crumpled in incomprehension.

"It doesn't matter." Julian shook his head and lowered his gaze to the Exploding Snap cards.

"Come on," said Septimus, his tone deliberately up-beat, reaching for the cards and dealing them out quickly. "I want to win a few more before tea." He knew what Blewitt had meant now, and where they had been before meeting him, Rufus and Darren in the corridor on the way here. "Are you going to stop me, Jules?"

Taking his own pile, Julian gave him a, "you bet I am," look and as the friends continued their game and Septimus could see his friend's mood lift as little poofs as piles of cards continued to blast sparks when they got pairs, won some, lost some, before Madam Pomfrey shooed them away.

"Go," she ordered, having been alerted to the forbidden cards being brought into her hospital by the proportional amounts of mirth they were extracting from four eleven-year olds. "Half an hour," she instructed, pocketing the cards amid protests. "Your friend needs rest - lord knows they all do," Madam Pomfrey added as she swept them towards the door. "You can wait here, since it's too early for tea."

"Madam Pomfrey...?" Septimus endeavoured to peer past her through the now-closing infirmary door. "Julian...he said his mum knows how bad he is, and she wants him to stay here. He seems really poorly..."

"He's in the best place," nodded the nurse. "If we can't cure him, no-one can, not even St. Mungo's," she added. "But we will," Madam Pomfrey reassured Septimus warmly, her hand on his arm before bustling back though the door. He sank next to Remus on a very old couch that to one side of the door tucked around the corner. The window next to Darren framed a darkening, red-streaked sky, one perfect for quidditch practice.

"Thanks for coming with me," Septimus said to Darren's left ear as Rufus pulled out his PP and began to tap on it before pocketing it again and staring down the corridor. "I think it meant a lot to Julian, especially with who visited him before us." Darren turned his head, his features blank.

"Someone who said that he hoped our friend hadn't seen Ariella..." Darren raised his eyebrows sharply. "And when Rufus - " Septimus glanced left - no reaction - " - mentioned the "M"- word..." It took few seconds, and then Darren's expression of indignant outrage told Septimus that he'd figured it out too.

"The - " - there was a long pause as Darren sought an appropriate adjective - "- sods! The utter sods!" He glared at Septimus as if he were Blewitt himself, before sinking back into the well-buttocked sofa-cushions. "Glad you asked me, then," he added, his voice returning to normal. "Oh, I forgot." He reached into his blazer pocket, sliding out a copy of the latest "Quiddith Monthly".

"Got this for you. Mum sent it. Never forgets," he added watching as his friend smiled at the thin volume, adverts for brooms vying for space with numerous portable pensieve ones, Septimus noticed as the cover fell flat.

"Great," smiled Septimus. He glanced through the window again as Darren took the magazine, turning to the page where the "Firebolt" broom company had a small article on a compact broom, an import from South Korea, the Flamesong. It was light and zippy, not really a quidditch broom, however.

"Nothing in the league of the Lightningshot," mused Darren, a little envy in his voice.

"You'll have to thank your mum," said Septimus, trying to picture Petunia Black's face. He'd met her once, of course, and he remembered pictures of Dudley lined up on the mantlepiece in the Blacks' living room, jostling for position with Regulus's industry awards.

"'course," said Darren. "Your mum knows mine, that's why she wrote asking me to pass it on to you. Dudley's going out with your sister."

My sister?

"Freya? Oh yes, of course." Septimus vaguely remembered, or at least thought he did. A lot of what Freya did was vague. That was, when she hadn't been getting in trouble with his parents.

"If you go practicing tomorrow, Daz, you can borrow my Lightningshot, if you want." There was a pause.

"Seriously?" Septimus nodded.

"Cool! That really will be so cool, Septimus." Darren grinnned. "Nothing like having my own, though. I'd rather that than a portable pensieve - " he spoke up deliberately so Rufus could hear, though if he could he didn't show it. Septimus grinned too. He knew that Darren didn't mean Rufus; it was most of the rest of the school population who had managed to acquire one of these much sought-after latest things, chatting to one another via the pensieves as they sat next to one another, or projecting mirrors by which they could do their hair.

"Far better to race and enter a team than just sit about and chat," Septimus agreed. "They certainly seem popular, what do you think, Rufe?" Rufus's head, bobbing to a noiseless beat, turned and smiled.

"What's that?"

"Quidditch broom or portable pensieve?" asked Darren. "Which would you have, if you had to choose?"

"Probably the pensieve," replied Rufus, "if I had to choose. But music is much better played live, so neither." And he went back to nodding his head as the other to boys' gaze trailed back to the sunset and the conversation waned to silence.

"Too early for tea," murmured Darren and he eyed the scene through the window, "too bad we lost our cards." He glanced across in the direction of the hospital and then, all of a sudden, his face broke out into a grin, then his mouth opened as he laughed heartily

"Shush!" Septimus nudged Darren, and then he saw what Darren had seen, forcing himself to contain his own laughter - Rufus was holding the very cards Madam Pomfrey had confiscated. "We've got a wizard on our hands, sure enough!" As they rearranged themselves on the settee so as to resume play Rufus went on to explain that, far from being a well-trained pickpocket he had managed to re-programme his PP to replicate small-scale objects and what the nurse had taken was a copy that would fade to nothing in her well-stuffed pocket within the hour.

When they got bored of snap, the outcome of which was a draw all round and several charred holes to Darren's trousers, much to the boys' amusement Septimus jerked his thumb towards the door of the hospital.

"Got to have been half an hour now," he said, getting up. Darren bounced up too, sweeping up the playing cards. "C'mon."

All three boys crept back into the hospital and over to where Julian lay, asleep. Despite their caution, no-one challenged them and they walked over to him.

"He's asleep, and I'm hungry," stated Rufus.

"He's not asleep, and you, you always think of your stomach," retorted Julian, opening his eyes.

"You OK?" asked Septimus.

"Nice flowers," commented Darren, smirking.

"They're not mine!" Julian protested, "they're Aoife's." He gestured to the bed where a girl was sleeping. "I asked that elf who works here to push them over. Never seen anything like it before. They change colour, and scent. Love to know how." Julian laughed, punctuating his geniality with engine-backfiring coughs. "So - " he coughed, taking the cup of water that Darren had offered him, "what've you been talking about, like a bunch of girls?"

"Sep's going to lend me his lightningshot," said Darren, proudly. "Dudley will be so jealous when I tell him, too!"

"And," interjected Rufus, leaning over to Julian and holding his portable pensieve, "music. Only don't spew up on my PP, Rocky!" He smiled, looking between the three boys and the effect was as though Rufus had just spoken his first few words of a foreign language and was awaiting a reaction to gauge the success of his attempt. Despite his words jarring oddly Julian grinned anyway, his ashen face glowing a little in amusement.

"Not much good now they've blocked everything," sighed Darren, reaching into his pocket for the playing cards. "Ozzie's been in a real bad mood now he can't get the quidditch scores." Oscar Jones, captain of the Gryffindor team had protested at the restriction of freedom of information by camping out on the steps outside Professor Snape's office. He'd managed three days before the headmaster had explained that if he failed to attend lessons he would forfeit his place in his NEWTs which would mean that he would, by default, sacrifice his captaincy. It had taken him less than five minutes to get back to the Astronomy tower. But his bitterness towards the ban remained.

"Not everything," said Rufus, handing the PP to Darren. Septimus caught a glimpse of the screen before watching his friend's face light up in wonder.

"Live...? Now...? Finland versus Slovenia?" Rufus leaned over and tapped the ball of the pensieve. At once the match was surrounding them, on the walls the stadium in Turku, the quidditch goals over Aoife's bed; those of the opposition projected over the door of the ward. It was as if they were there, waiting as the crowds waited, for the national team to face the away team, who were hovering in the vaulted ceiling, their bright yellow robes streaming behind them in the blustery wind. He tapped it again, and the image shrunk again. Another tap and projection again.

"...how...?" Both Darren and Julian said together. Septimus said nothing - he was staring in the direction of the door that led to Madam Pomfrey's room. Shuffling behind it suggested movement and if they were unlucky she'd catch them.

"Mum's sports minister, so I get access to all sports, any sports," said Rufus. "The restrictions don't seem to have applied to my PP. Plus, I don't care what the Professors say they've done, there's still getting messages through to other pensieves too. Stuff about - " Rufus lowered his voice and spoke gravely, "the Daily Prophet. I get it all, but mostly the sports. Mum's just nuts," he added, shaking his head and tapping the PP's sphere.

"'C'mon," said Darren, as both Septimus and Julian tried to contain their laughter at Rufus's last comment, "put it back on!"

"No!" hissed Septimus quickly as Julian's coughing overcame him again. "Madam Pomfrey!" He pointed towards the door.

"OK, come on," said Darren. "The owlery? Do you reckon the owls would mind?"

"Take it," said Rufus, shrugging his shoulders and handing the PP to Darren.. "I'm not worried about watching it tonight, I'd rather go back to the greenhouses. Just don't get caught. Mum'll go spare."

"OK," said Darren, his eyes merry with excitement as Rufus strode off without saying goodbye. He pocketed the pensieve as lovingly as Rufus had earlier and headed towards the door, then turned and said, "you don't mind? Septimus? Julian?" His eyes lingered on Julian for a moment before looking, questioningly at Septimus.

"I've got occlumency homework to get through," said Septimus, sorely wishing he could go with Darren but he wanted a reason to stop with Julian. "Tell me the highlights later, would you?"

"Will do."

"And you can borrow the Lightningshot tomorrow, if you like," Septimus added.

"Really? Cool." Darren nodded his thanks before scampering away, grinning happily.

"So, is Madam Pomfrey coming?" asked Julian, who'd just shuffled down a bit in hi bed. "And have you got occlumency to do?"

"Yes, and yes," nodded Septimus, looking towards the door. The healer did indeed come in, checking on Aoife, who still appeared to be asleep.

"Aoife managed to change her bed linen into gold leaf," Julian sighed with the effort. "Who said alchemy was extinct?" Aoife Waters, a non-wizard from Swindon had, a few days before, been competing with Julian as to who could effect the most outrageous magic. Now, both seemed much weaker. Surely it wasn't just him, Septimus, who was worried about Julian? Surely there were other people worried about other non-wizards, or the situation as a whole?

"Here," said Septimus, tossing a newspaper onto Julian's distinctly not-gold bedcovers. "I got this for you. It's yesterday's, but the Columb Muldoon was going to throw it out."

"Thanks, just what I always wanted," said Julian, "a soggy newspaper." Septimus waited, and then Julian, looking harder added, "a herbology catalogue." He grinned at Septimus. "That is what I always wanted! There's some cool stuff in here."

Dangerous things, thought Septimus, happy that his friend was happy. He glanced at chip-paper wrapping, the "Daily Prophet", number one enemy of any teacher in the school, PP-speaking. Strangely, having a print copy was somehow alright. As Julian pored away at the catalogue, muttering aloud his wish-list, Septimus looked at the headlines. Conjurists putting their side; conjurists accused of terrorising non-wizards; developments in Strasbourg; music listings; the death of a witch in Switzerland; an article about...Septimus smoothed out the crumpled page...wizards concerned at the illnesses of -

" - Hedgwards' non-wizards, and their unprecedented and unexplainable illnnesses - "

"...hm?" Julian glanced up.

"Look, some people have written to say they're concerned with you."

"Me?" Julian craned over.

"You and everyone who's ill like you. And I thought it was just me." The letters were brief an to the point, the gist of most wondering what Snape and/or Caelius Lupin were going to do about the situation.

"I'll tell you," said Julian, closing his eyes momentarily, pushing both the herbology catalogue and the newspaper sheet away and lowering his voice waiting for Poppy Pomfrey to bustle past. When she'd gone he opened his eyes and continued, "you're going to have an assembly pretty soon. Professor Snape talked to Madam Pomfrey about it last night when they thought I was asleep. I nearly was," he added, "and I thought I'd dreamed it at first, but then I opened my eyes and saw them both. He's going to talk about how dangerous the conjurists are; tht anyone actively promoting conjurism are to be expelled; he'll explain why it's important to talk to other wizard schools. And we'll go home, eventually." Julian stopped, and closed his eyes again, sighing like an old man whose body was running out of time.

They'd go home, Septimus repeated to himself a couple of times as he continued to sit by Julian, waiting to see whether he was going to open his eyes again, and felt his own frame heave, but with relief. They're going home!

"Hm, I wonder if that's what he really thinks." Julian's lips were barely moving but in the stillness of the evening Septimus could her him. He leaned closer and whispered back.

"What do you mean, Jules?"

"Perhaps he felt he needed people to know that students weren't getting well. Perhaps he disagrees with your Uncle Kay?" Septimus didn't reply. Julian was, as usual, making a lot of sense. He knew that Snape wasn't as keen on the idea of accepting non-wizards and now they were becoming ill, to say nothing and claim everything was and would be alright might damage the credibility of the ministry's experiment. That was one explanation, he supposed.

But all Septimus really wanted, deep down, no matter what, was his friend to be alright. If that meant him going back home, and even the headmaster of the school thinking it was for the best then home Julian should be. He looked around the hospital room, at the moon-shadows, feeling a chill as his poorly friend took his ease.

A distant fluttering ten minutes later, as Septimus began to pore over his millstone-like homework made him look up and chuckle to himself as Dorielle (hitherto Mervyn) sought him out. Had that been a win for Finland or Slovenia, he wondered. Septimus read his work and, even on the fourth reading made no sense to him, and he'd written it. He crumpled it up before taking a fresh sheet. Dorielle waited patiently as she watched him write, this time not work, but unmistakeably, even to a wild bird, a letter.

Septimus's last letter had told the recipient all that Hedgewards should have been, or how he would have liked it to be. Now it was time to tell his mum exactly what was going on.

88888888


	46. The Long and the Short of It

88888888

"Dear Mr and Mrs Black, I regret to inform you…"

Petunia Black leaned back in the chair of the telephone table against the green velvet curtain in the hallway of their small, suburban house, glanced at the two other letters that lay on the glass top before narrowing her eyes. She recognised both hands: one looped and neat, exact and sickeningly perfect. In contrast, the scrawl that had, against all odds, allowed the owl to deliver it all the way from a tiny Norwegian island made Petunia's defensiveness melt away and she picked up Cecilia's letter, dropping the first that she had opened.

Cecilia. She picked at the top before unfolding a slightly grubby and creased leaf, relaxing as she did so as she read her friend's letter.

It was inexplicable that she and Cecilia had become friends all those years ago. The woman had literally turned up out of nowhere at the door of the Reciprocators' headquarters, her brother-in-law Sirius's house. But it had been Cecilia's genuineness, her lack of pretence, her honesty even when she had made some blundering errors that others in the Reciprocators had pounced on to beat her with, those things that had drawn Petunia to her and made her like the woman.

That, and the fact that Cecilia regularly got up the noses of both her sister and Henrietta Edwards, of course. Petunia glanced sideways at the other letter, pristine and exact, the words put together thoughtfully and impeccably composed. What did she want that she thought Petunia could give her? Was it the fact that Henrietta had, according to several anonymous sources, been aiding dark wizards and Conjurists, something which Petunia sensed had been the cause of her death?

She looked back to the letter in her hand. Three months out of date and Cecilia's happiness and "to hell with it" attitude that may have poured off the page had the words been liquid that caused Petunia to smile. Cecilia had written of her reconciliation with Remus, and that now she had found a way to return to Britain, against the express wishes of her brother-in-law Caelius Lupin. Her family meant so much to her, Petunia knew, that her love of them was interwoven with the twists and turns of the untidy handwriting of hers.

It was the same feeling she, Petunia, felt for her own family, that deep yearning of worry, edginess and suppressed euphoria that sometimes made her laugh out loud when she was alone, or cry a few tears next to her sleeping Regulus if she were awake at night thinking about them.

No matter how others thought of them. No matter how _Lily_ thought of her nephews, she corrected herself. Many times, through her own life, when she had let them down unintentionally or sometimes because she had been so annoyed with her parents' constant negativity towards her on purpose, the reason for her inadequacies had been jealousy of her younger sister. And on the face of it, Petunia could understand why, of course. Her deep empathetic skill made her all too aware of her parents' feelings towards her and their favouritism of Lily made it even worse. Petunia was the eldest, and as such, was expected, at least in their parents' eyes, to defer to Lily, to praise her for her magical ability, to put up with the taunts and bullying that she had encountered and endured at Hedgewards.

And there had been only one person to stand up for her then, against Henrietta Edwards' incitement of hatred at school: Regulus Black, whom she had followed on his leaving school, and never returned, much to her parents' chagrin. Not Lily, who to their folks, had claimed she had begged Henrietta to stop, but to no avail. Besides, it had been so often pointed out that Petunia was older, the implication being that she was either too weak in character or too stupid to do something about it herself.

Yes, Petunia recalled, as she had followed the year group after their official leaving party, to Hogsmeade, and then had gone off with Regulus, her defender and confidante, whom Petunia had loved and still loved every bit as much every day, whom she had supported with all her heart in turn when he forged a career in magical architecture, before going freelance and securing employment for Dudley.

Lily had never forgiven her flight. Their father had gone to search for her in a rainstorm, come home and died of a fever three days later and her mother had lasted only another three months before she, too, had died.

Lily had made funeral plans for their mum and had deliberately kept Petunia in the dark, cuttingly suggesting that Petunia's empathy should have meant she knew about them anyway. Why should Petunia have thought her little sister would have been any different about their mother's death than about anything that had gone on at school? She'd then spent every opportunity since the birth of her perfect sons making sure Petunia knew about each and every one of their successes, about James's success in the Ministry while, each time, asking in that oh-so-caring way, about any problems with Dudley and Darren, asking about Regulus's long hours and relatively low pay.

And it _was_ low pay. Not many wizards wanted new houses, less still for their defensive spells to be reinstalled. She glanced out of the window and at the large advertising sign on their front driveway. "Need a spell to put them in hell? Want to hex'em all the way to Wrexham? Buy a charm alarm from the nation's NUMBER ONE magical architect Reggie Black! No job too big or too small! 25 years in the business!" Petunia smiled. It was a job that he loved, something he was great at. And they managed – they always would – despite the opinion of any of those so-called Reciprocators.

Petunia looked again at the letter from Hedgewards, posted as it had been through Royal Mail. Severus's diplomatically impeccable attention to detail. He knew how she clung to everything non-magical, everything perfectly non-wizard ordinary. Severus. Petunia had sensed early on that Severus Snape was going to achieve many great things; whether good or ill, they would be on a grand scale, proportional to his talents and considerable magical ability. She glanced at the letter from Lily again.

Perhaps this would be the twin of the Hedgewards letter, consoling her about her son's misdemeanour, silently reminding Petunia of how much Lily valued her own sons' spotless school records. She reached across and was about to shred it to pieces, but then stopped. It wasn't about Darren that Lily was writing, not Dudley and his new-found singledom out of the company of Freya Tonks (as the girl had become, much to Cecilia's sadness). As she opened and read the letter, deliberately discarding the envelope on the floor, Petunia couldn't resist a smirk of satisfaction.

"Oh no, you," exclaimed Petunia loudly. "Nothing for you, eh?" She laughed aloud again. But for Sam. Coward. Asking for help for Golden boy Sam, who was to become the youngest intern the European Ministry had ever seen, who would also win every event at the Modern Magical Olympics while playing a fugue and conversing in Gnollish. Perfect Sam. But he needed tuition in Empathy for his interview. Her project that she'd written all those years ago for General Magical Studies about empathy-strong witches and wizards in history, that has set her up for a hexing from the gang that night, led on by Henrietta Edwards. The one Petunia knew Lily knew she'd kept for all those years.

So, she wanted her to send it to Sam at Hedgewards. It was good, then, when Lily said it was, good enough for her boy to help him on his career path. Where had her help been when Petunia had been punished for staying out of dorm all night, having been driven out one summer's evening by Miss Edwards? When had her perfect sister stuck _her_ neck out for family?

She would, Petunia thought, she would send the work to Sam. Of course she would. And Lily knew it too. Which is why the letter was now lying screwed up next to the envelope and being edged by Petunia with her foot to the open hearth and kicked into it. Of course she would send the work Sam. It wasn't Sam's fault she had a mother like that. There was a reason why she and Regulus had abstained from joining the Reciprocators, despite Aberforth's relentless insistence that their skills would be valuable. A few reasons, Aberforth, Petunia added bitterly.

The fire in the grate licked the paper hungrily as Petunia went back to the remaining two pieces of mail. Which next? Severus Snape's letter was for information only, and didn't require a reply, only an acknowledgement of receipt, which Petunia had already sent. And Cecilia's? Three months out of date and therefore of no use to anyone, only as a snapshot in time of her friend's happiness that she and her husband has reconciled.

Petunia turned, narrowing her eyes in the direction of the red brick-built fire place. Remus. If Cecilia knew what she knew...

…what she _suspected_…

…the Cecilia then. Then the woman would find solace rather than frustrating isolation in that wretched school that farmed out bigots and snobs to impose more things on the country from a biased, unelected European Wizarding Council.

She got up, looking around her already pristine house. Tomorrow, Petunia thought, with regard to her nephew's education. Tomorrow I'll find it out, or the day afterwards. Not today, she shouted silently at the now ashy letter and envelope. I've got far too much cleaning of the house to worry about before I try to find that out for you.

88888888

Coldness. Nothing like Cecilia had ever experienced, penetrated every crack and fissure, seeping through seemingly solid three-foot walls as hot water through ice. She had taken to wearing all of her clothes at once now, only parting with her clothes for the castle elves to wash (dry, iron and fold) when they came to clamour for them of an evening and only then allowing them access to her room once she had put herself under several quilt layers topped by a heavy skin, vowing to herself that she would not move even an inch all night lest the urgent, questing freeze would dart in the gaps and chill her.

It was only October, Cecilia thought to herself as she threw her under layers of clothes onto the floor by the door as she redressed by the furnace-like fire with her outer layers next to her skin. What would the cold be like in January and February? To say it was bitterly cold was an understatement, though it was one she had used in her covering letter to Caelius's office, accompanying her weighty tome describing the implementation of the laws from Strasbourg; the dissatisfaction and disquiet from the professors here at Durmstrang; the students' learning; Ragnhild's help to get around the building and even the scores of the school's quidditch matches that took place above the owlery. This would he her third winter at the school and, as the door creaked open and a "swoosh" exactly like a castle-elf diving for her laundry at lightning speed made her look over in the hope of seeing one of the little things, Cecilia wondered how she had borne the other two.

The usual hard-nosed attitude of staff and students meant they simply carried on as Cecilia had found out when she'd made an attempt to talk to Ragnhild about the matter. She'd told Cecilia to wear more clothes for, she'd said, in her usual matter-of-fact manner, that, "there's no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing."

Clothing had indeed kept out the worst of the cold but Cecilia did seem to feel the cold more than others at the school, and the thought of stopping at the school much longer and the tiredness and illness that plagued her from time to time was beginning to get her down.

Snuggling down under her bedclothes Cecilia waved her left hand clockwise which allowed the air around her to glow. Not that she could perform much magic of course, but that which she could do Cecilia found she was beginning to use without even thinking about it.

Her mid drifted to her latest quantity of information that she had had the pleasure of dispatching to her brother-in-law. The research that Ragnhild was carrying out, into the redheaded gene; the mutterings and protests by several of the professors there at Durmstrang that they must share their work with other magical schools.

More interesting than any of that was the page that had been discarded by the Professor of Altithology, who gave lessons to the pupils in distance from the ocean and all manner of applications therein, who had discarded two pages of the Daily Prophet in disgust after he had received a sample of bogweed by owl, declaring that this probably the one thing that was least connected to height, being a plant that was found deep in lakes and rivers.

Cecilia had been walking along the corridor at the time, tailed by twelve fourth year students who had finally pinned her down into giving them a lesson and the sheets had floated in front of her and before her feet and she had scooped and scrunched them up, pocketing them before finding them later that evening.

Apart from the fact that it was clearly Professor Longbottom who had send bogweed to the affronted Professor Anders Boe and that had conjured up bitter-sweet memories of Hedgewards as she recalled his honest, keen face, but the fact that she rediscovered them that evening as she was shedding some layers of clothing before replacing them with others had made Cecilia realise what she had got.

Reading past the usual Prophet bias it was clear that there was a growing disquiet from several sections of the wizarding community and some non-wizards too that the Hedgewards policy of admitting non-wizards had been a crazy experiment which had failed to do what Caelius Lupin had set out to do. Cecilia's mouth curled again in the darkness as it had done when she had read, and re-read the columns. Unity had gone too far, it had said, in its edition a fortnight before, far beyond the natural boundaries that culturally separated the two peoples.

So, thought Cecilia a distant scream reached her through the thick castle walls, you haven't manage to charm the general public, brother-dearest. Even though I believed it to be wrong, it took for you to implement it to prove to the whole country how wrong you were –

Here, her thoughts were stopped, as another scream reached her.

Ragnhild.

The woman often screamed late at night. She had explained to Cecilia that the thoughts and feelings that she had about people, these were more attuned, clearer at night, like analogue radio broadcasts without the heated atmosphere to have to pass through. All kinds of visions, Ragnhild had explained and she closed her mind to the screams and thought instead about the witch's last conversation with Cecilia, telling her about the urge she always felt to prepare for the winter, to prepare _against_ it, like an army under siege. Families far north traditionally spent the summer months hoarding food and wood, knitting, sewing, building. Here, where all was provided for staff but for Ragnhild the mentality, the necessity, the physiological state of mind, was there, she had seen her hoarding food, stacking and piling bedding; boarding up her windows, even though all of her needs, were met there at Durmstrang.

Her mind drifted from her colleague to the thoughts that she had been pressing deep down inside herself since that afternoon and the idea of Hedgewards had popped up in her brain. Cecilia let go the dammed emotion and the sadness and pining that she was feeling towards Septimus.

The best she could hope for was that he wasn't missing her. That he was studying, sleeping, talking to his friends. Hopefully Septimus was putting his trust in the healers at St. Mungo's and not worrying himself unduly about his father. She had told him she would be back at Christmas and now, she told herself boldly, she really didn't care about what Caelius said, did or thought, she would be

It was funny. Despite the bitterness and coldness, the strangeness within the castle and its chronic isolation in the tempestuous North Sea thinking about her son, about Christmas and leaving all of this behind her made her feel a little happier. That there had been protests within the school here about sharing research – a more inward-looking, isolated place Cecilia didn't think existed – and to ask of them to share their work was like asking them to open up a vein. Their work was their lifeblood and they guarded it fiercely. Cecilia had, that evening, caught a conversation between the Professor of Magical History and the Professor of Dark Arts Studies concerning their official questioning of the validity of the requests being made. These official queries, which would be sent back to the European Council, would delay what was being asked of them by days if not months while, as one, the wizards of Durmstrang dug and poked at every point. What a brilliant delaying tactic, Cecilia concluded. But she also knew it was unlikely to deter Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy.

At once, the face that went with the name appeared in the darkness and she thought about the boy she had known at Hogwarts. If she had been in a position to know then what she knew now, her view on the poor lad might have been different, for it was clear to Cecilia now that his circumstances had made for the pompous bully that he had been back then. Back _there_.

But he didn't know her _here_. So few people did. In fact the only person who probably remembered that she was at Durmstrang now anyway, the only person who truly cared for her feelings as she railed against returning there was Severus Snape. Everyone else, the Reciprocators, Caelius, those staff she had worked with at Hedgewards, Freya…everyone was glad in one way or another, which she was out of the way. And then there was Remus, unconscious, alone…

Cecilia screwed up her eyes in the darkness to stop the racking sob that was about to leave her body making a sound. It was her irrelevance here, in this place, which had caused her to write about commonality in the first place, and all the other mistakes made by wizards. Her own bloody-mindedness had been her captor in this prison of a magic-school. Had she been with the headmaster of Hedgewards as the he received the deadly accurate corrections to decades-long work she had sent to him she would have been mildly amused at Severus Snape's expression.

And then, to her own surprise, violent sobbing erupted from inside her as her son again impressed himself onto her hypothalamus.

"Why can't I be the mum I want to be for you?" Cecilia screamed aloud, though no-one would come to investigate, she knew. "Why can't I be the mum you deserve?" To be there for you, to do what mums do, she continued silently, take you back to Edgeford for a proper life, away from that school. Is it better to be away?

Cecilia turned over and punched her pillow, and then the mattress. "I'm too much of a coward to come for you again!" she screamed into the cloth. And she was so close to throwing it all away again, all that work. She was back here again because she had done just that.

Time passed.

Fight, Cecilia told herself at length, as the racking of her distress had caused her ribcage to ache and her eyes to sting. Know thy enemy and fight. But, said a little voice in her head, what if the enemy was yourself?


	47. Reprisals

Sodium-yellow light marked out the shape of the window in the negative on the ancient woollen rug in the centre of Number 13's living room. James Potter, stared out into the street, past the street lamp and, too, the iron railing that bordered the little park at the centre of Grimmauld Place's housing square. Looking back at the lists in his hands again he resumed his pacing across the rug thinking through the organisation of the evening.

An hour ago, Mick Mullen, he'd sent him down to Devoran, in Cornwall to investigate a disturbance by the coast. Could be Conjurists. Could be anti-Conjurists. Could be kids. He sighed, rubbing his temples with his thumb and second finger and screwing up his eyes in an effort to relieve the strain. Could be anyone. He looked at the list again. Everyone allocated. He'd even sent Mrs Figg, to watch the Passing in Whitby. Unlikely to be anything nefarious. But in James's experience – his onerous experience as it was beginning to be – no tip-offs were to be ignored, not since the last meeting of the Reciprocators where a report had gone unattended and three non-wizards were caught up in unpleasantness just outside Oldham, and –

– a sudden bang from the vicinity of the staircase caused James to look up sharply. Mick's twin Dave had volunteered to remain with James as all of the rest of the Reciprocators were fully employed. Currently he was busy reinforcing the stairs and the cellar: apparently the weight of paperwork that Aberforth had created – and the Reciprocators had continued to add to - had a compounded structural problem from which the whole terrace of houses in Grimmauld Place had been suffering. While the non wizard residents had taken to expensive repairs, talking loudly with one another in the street about the problem and the cost the Reciprocators had come and gone wordlessly, knowing precisely the cause was their data storage problem.

"It just needs a bit of compression," James had heard Dave say as he trod carefully down the worn stair carpet and towards the ever-growing pile of TWITs (Trans-Wizard Immediate Transmissions). And compression he had given it – the parchments on which the Reciprocators had stored their work since the beginning of the Following was indeed overflowing from their storage space under the stairs and he had lingered for a few moments as the younger Mullen twin began in his efforts to reduce their volume. Howls of protest leapt from the parchments and papers especially the older ones which had become somewhat sentient, criticising Dave they remembered when he was tiny and wondered what his parents would think.

"That I'm wilful and rebellious, just like Mick," Dave had guffawed as he'd tried another spell. James smiled to himself as a "pop" and "fizz" that had echoed around the ground floor like an aural poltergeist reminded him of that earlier conversation. He folded the TWITs. Nothing more could be done that evening. He was trying his best too; his friends and colleagues were telling him he was doing brilliantly. Perhaps he was, James had thought. He just couldn't see it himself. He was just hanging on, hoping that tonight Snape, or possibly Caelius would be there, relieving him of the burden of leadership.

He shook his head as he sloped towards the kitchen, dodging a blue flash that was Dave "having a word" with the early 20th Century documents who were quoting Rabbie Burns's "To A Mouse".

"I'll give you 'cow'ring tim'rous beastie!'" James grinned as he pushed open the kitchen door – just in time to avoid a singeing from another blast of blue as Dave tried, "Presium Presiama", a spell that the Ministry used for their information archiving. Pressing down onto a chair James lowered his head, his unasked for position, leaden, unrelenting, bearing down. He closed his eyes.

The Reciprocators were not what they had once been. All of them were over worked, waiting as the nights passed, as they contained and defused conflicts between wizards, cojurists, anti-conjurists, non-wizards. They had not seen either of their joint leaders for nearly a month and, not for the first time, James wondered whether it was now up to him, too, to fulfil this too, pro tem. For both Heads of the Reciprocators their absence was entirely understandable. For Snape's part, the student illnesses; for Caelius the ever growing incidences and ferocity of conjurist attacks around the country.

But where did that leave them?

James had taken to abandoning any plans that had been put in place at the start of September between the three of them and instead taken it upon himself to start again. Taking into account any happenings of the day he had reorganised the shift timetables, given briefings, taken reports and filed them – the rhythmic cracking that continued under the stairs attesting to James's meticulousness in that respect – and what he had promised to do for the Reciprocators, that is, to be its temporary Head for a fortnight, had become a month-long of unrelenting pressure.

It wasn't even midnight and Tonks had already returned to Headquarters, exhausted and famished – she'd left shortly after eating two bacon sandwiches, one after the other, to her third call-out of the night and her departure had been shortly followed by the Weasley twins' return, then Bathsheba, all of them suffering from the effects of prolonged, extended shifts.

They had all agreed to do this, James reminded himself, and happy to do so. They had agreed to timetable Sirius's time, and to take on additional work. It was a stop-gap, Severus had explained, to support to the Aurors in the ministry as Caelius enacted the Ministry's plans to contain this growing, unprecedented, domestic unrest. The Mullens, he knew, had not been privy to a meeting; both twins expressed their concern at the Reciprocators' prolonged emergency role in their dry, acerbic manner.

James opened his eyes again and looked about Grimmauld Place's kitchen, taking in the time from the cuckoo clock Quarter to midnight. Time soon for him to be out, taking one of Lily's shifts. Haverfordwest, in South Wales, had been experiencing some disturbances of late and he had rota'd it into their shifts. Lily would be there shortly after two, having spent the evening trawling through documents for the Ministry and complaining of headaches. Sam was on her mind, he knew; his application for European Ministry scholarship. But, too, Lily had not been the same since the news about Henrietta. None of them had.

What they really needed was a meeting to talk about the immediacy of things going on, how long their intense involvement would last. Just, even, for a morale boost – Merlin knew he could do with that. But equally, who was he to question both Severus and Caelius? Both had more than he to manage.

As the sparks and Burns poetry continued below James made his way upstairs. Sirius was awake, he knew, the candles burning in the library where his friend taken up residence since his recovery, who moved books from his bed as he spied James in the doorway. Just seeing Sirius Black's face, alert and with it's characteristic mischief and mirth was a kind of comfort to him, rather than the impassive, unconscious state in which he had seen him at St. Mungo's.

"How are you?" James pushed open the door of the second second-floor bedroom. The light, glowing from the candle-brackets, glimmered on the cerulean-blue wallpaper in Sirius's bedroom where his friend was recuperating. It seemed like only yesterday they had been boys, lighting candles in the same holders, Grilholm's Under-Age, visible to those under seventeen, perfect for staying up so late into the night that it became early. His friend, lying propped up on the pillows and leafing through an out-dated Prophet, raised his head and frowned.

"Well, who are you?" Sirius put down his newspaper, leaned forward, his newly acquired spectacles, a concession to injury, rather than the ravages of age, or so Mr. Black junior would have you believe, and narrowed his eyes. James sighed inwardly. They'd been warned about possible after effects of his ordeal.

"Sirius, it's me. James." It had been three weeks since Sirius had left the hospital. He hasn't seemed to have had any problems since he'd been home. "James," James insisted. "Your friend?" But now, amnesia, clearly had taken hold, as incomprehension passed several times over Sirius's features.

And then suddenly, his friend threw back his head, laughing loudly, his mirth interspersed with a breathy coughing. James grinned, his earlier weariness evaporating as he sat at the end of Sirius's bed.

"Sorry I haven't been up in a few days," he continued as Sirius's chuckling ebbed away. "We seem to have been up against it, recently.

"The cat I've seen. Kreacher I've seen. Hell, James, even Mrs Figg made her way up to tell me about her waterlilies. Waterlilies! In October? She lives in a flat! She hasn't even got a pond!" James sighed, smiling at his friend's apparent umbrage.

"Imagine how we felt, you inconveniencing us, malingering in hospital, never mind the endless paperwork from Caelius – " he noticed Sirius shift uncomfortably " – anything to skive off and leave us to do all the hard work." Sirius smiled at his friend's ribbing.

"How's the other malingerer? I take it there's been no change for Remus?"

"'fraid not." James shook his head. "Still sleeping."

"And it used to just feel like a bit of a lark, something to do in our spare time," Sirius mused, wincing again as he shuffled up the bed. "Some hobby."

"I take it Lily told you about Henrietta?" James glanced down at the article at the bottom of the page, an article now smaller in size and relegated to the corner, the news being now nearly a fortnight old.

"And Sam? She said he'd be taking an internship."

"To the European Ministry," nodded James. "Not just any old government job for our little Sammy."

"Haha! Sammy. I still remember him throwing up all over this very bed when he was a little one."

"I fully expect you to remind him of it when he becomes the European President. At his inaugural speech would be favourite.

"What does he have to do to pass?"

"The usual. He's done the initial exams and thanks to Hermione he spent a month working in Strasbourg. Just his NEWTs, final scholarship exam and voluntary public service to complete."

"Voluntary. But it's required to be completed for his application?" Sirius grinned, stifling a cough and reaching for his medication.

"I know. I didn't point it out. I don't know who's more nervous, Sam or Lily. But I rather think her current state of mind is to do with Hen.. She's spending a good deal of time with Petunia recently, so I know she's cut up. We all are. She's thinking of taking up the vacant teaching post now Binns has finally taken his leave. To the library," James clarified. "He can't really leave. But he'd been taking longer and longer to get to lessons to teach the students. One day, they all waited for him, packed in tightly and he taught all of them at once."

"Not really good enough, especially with the non-wizard students."

"And Caelius's requirements for challenging outcomes for each student. Not one of them has been adequately taught unless they all "Exceed Expectations", the non-wizards especially."

"One could almost suspect a hidden agenda," Sirius commented. "But of course, Caelius Lupin would never do that."

"Severus has more things to think about than just Caelius's political meddling," James's expression was grim. "Draco Malfoy, and I can understand his principles, has imposed an educational openness between the three main educational establishments in Europe."

"What?"

"Hedgewards's, Durmstrang's and Beauxbatons's teachers are required to collaborate and share research material with one another. Caelius is dead against it, we don't know about Severus. But it's seems to be almost wholly unpopular. Durmstrang's teachers have been sending Owlers to Strasbourg, to "Strongly Protest the Imposition"."

"Owlers?"

"Their invention. Like howlers, but formal protests that scream their indignations to the President himself whenever they arrive. And they've been arriving to scream at Draco Malfoy day and night since the diktat was imposed." Sirius chuckled.

"What's Cecilia got to say about it all? I take it she's Muggle Studies teacher again?"

"If she is it's not at Hedgewards," said James, wryly.

"Eh? I thought she was on Caelius's good side, and she was coming back from Durmstrang?"

"She did. But without Caelius's permission. She walked, can you believe it, halfway across the country to get back to Helvellyn. But he sent her back to Durmstrang."

"Harsh. But I can see his point. Better to have someone on the inside with all the "collaborating" it has to do."

James was about to say that he'd never thought of it like that when his friend then asked about their other colleague.

"No-one's heard about Tabitha," James shook his head. "Or if Caelius had, he's keeping it under wraps."

"There's no-one like Caelius for intrigue and good old fashioned dirty politics." He smiled, coughed, then cursed Merlin as he scrabbled around for a chest relieving pill. It was good to have him back, awake, someone to talk to. Sirius would never have forgiven himself for not pulling through, however weak he was at the moment. James was glad to have his friend back in one piece, more or less.

"It's going to get better," Sirius conceded. "I can nearly walk. Well, I put my feet on the floor yesterday."

"That explains the loud crash we heard," James nodded, "as you fell over."

"What's happening, James?" Sirius leaned forward and gripped his forearm, staring at him intently. "I thought we knew our world, I thought we knew our work. To turn up to a house to get them to keep the noise down and for unlicensed half breeds to attack us…" Sirius shook his head.

"Makes me realise every day how hard we work, and why we do it. Can you imagine de-regulation, as some are proposing?" James shook his head. "Then there's the bandwagon ones, who just want to create a disturbance. And it's hardly surprising non-wizards are getting tetchy. I mean, with little chance to defend themselves from nefarious attacks, worry for the safety of their children…"

"What've Caelius and Severus got to say about things? You can't go on like this. You can't all be working like this forever. Merlin knows I want to be there with you!" he growled, looking away.

"And you will, old man, you will. You've just got to get over the last time you helped! But, we've not heard from either of them for nearly a fortnight. The political situation, Caelius. And then there's the Hedgewards situation."

"Hedgewards situation?" Sirius looked confused. James began to continue the jest, but this time he realised his friend might really not know.

"With the students? The non-wizards?" Sirius continued with uncomprehension.

"The non-wizards. You remember Caelius believes in the inclusion of a cross-section of the country into Hedgewards. The government, at any rate, which is basically Caelius," James clarified. Sirius nodded.

"Some started to get ill, as usually happens at the start of term. Some wizard-children came down with illnesses too, so Madam Pomfrey didn't think anything of it. But now practically every non-wizard child at the school is in the infirmary, suffering from one illness or another – fatigue, headaches, vomiting. Nothing specific. Poppy's doing her best; she's imposed a magical quarantine where the students are recuperating. Some have seemed to be getting better and when they've returned to lessons, within a few days they're back."

"What's Severus's view? And Caelius? A failed experiment? He's going to send them home, surely. " Sirius shook his head. "Poor kids."

"Severus thinks they should go home, I believe," James shook his head. "But clearly it's far more complicated than that. Which is why both haven't been here, with organising us."

"Yes, Lils said you'd taken it all on."

"They have more than enough to deal with," James conceded. "And I've done a few things to make things easier for us all. Joint head of the Reciprocators go hang!"

"Such as?"

"Sorted the shifts. Tonks took on a triple last week. Our range is getting further, so Mick and Dave have taken on three extra in the week too. Oh, and I've scheduled a meeting for tomorrow so that both Severus and Caelius can come. We need to be more efficient, in our ever-so interesting times."

"Listen, I can help!" Sirius suddenly interjected before his friend had a chance to rebuff him, the weight of years melting away as the youthful boy leaned forward, telling his friend about a nefarious scheme in which they could all make their ends. "I can…_tell_ me I can help."

"Yes," James nodded at length, smiling at Sirius's boyish enthusiasm. "You can help. Are you able to get downstairs?"

"Yes. No. I don't think so. But my magical abilities are unaffected. What do you need?"

"You. Just you. Here. Downstairs. To be you. You are a symbol of what we're doing, day in, day out. You just can't imagine what it's been like for us, since before you were both attacked. The rise of the conjurists, stupid wizard kids who we have to pass over to the Aurors on a daily basis. And Bathsheba just this evening has uncovered some evidence that there has been come counter-defence amongst non-wizards. We just need inspiration, that's all."

"Then, you'd better hold onto the bedpost."

"What?" He watched as Sirius leaned forward, the copy of the day before's Daily Prophet fluttering to the carpet as he withdrew his wand from beneath the sheets.

"Now!"

James didn't need telling twice. Hugging the oak column with full might, he watched as the scenery of the room trembled with bone-shuddering vibrations. It took him a moment to realise what was going on but, as the scenery of Sirius's bedroom slowly blurred audacity of the spell which his friend had undertaken quickly became apparent He'd apparated them both, and a half a ton of oak in the form of a four poster bed, ten feet downwards into Grimmauld Place's living room.

Dave Mullen, wiping his hands much as a mechanic who'd just changed the oil and spark plugs on you car might before charging you two hundred pounds for the privilege ducked out from the cupboard under the stairs with an air of satisfaction at a job well done.

"All sorted, James. They won't be bothering us ag – " His eyes widened as he broke off, at the sight of a huge bed, Sirius and James holding on for dear life crystallised into view before his eyes. Before he had a chance to say anything, drily or otherwise however the kitchen door burst open. Tonks, a sheaf of paper in her hands and a frantic look on her face shouted for their temporary leader.

"James!" She looked at the bed, ignoring its obvious discrepancy of being in the living room and pulled him up by the hand.

"Tonks, wait!"

"Come on, James. Look!" She thrust a pamphlet into his hand. James wove his way unsteadily towards the settee, rubbing his head and staring at it, turning it over and then back.

"Where did you get this?"

"I went to a disturbance down in West Wales. A tiny place called Angle. Some kids were trying to put a spell on them. I tried to catch them, but they ran off. They seemed to be with some non-wizard kids."

"What's it say?"

"It's the same that has been put out by Conjurists recently, urging action into converting Britain back into a magical land once more. Same as the other ones the Weasleys recovered tonight."

"What?"

"They've not been back?" Tonks looked frantic. "You...you don't know, do you?" From wildly leaping about as she'd told her story, Tonks sank into the seat next to James.

"What? Tonks? What don't we know?" Dave Mullen's voice rang clear and seemed to cut through the witch's panic.

"The Weasleys, all of them, went out on their duties tonight. Bathsheba too, Benjamin. Even Arabella Figg. All of them found at the scenes of their disturbances the same pamphlet. It seems to be inciting violence."

"Like the ones we've found most nights for months," James said grimly.

"Yes, but…yes. You don't understand, do you? These are all the same. Identical. And each scene they were discovered at was on fire. Burning. The buildings were burning. The land was burning. A co-ordinated attack."

James inched forward. So far, from what they'd been able to tell, incidences had been few and far between, sporadic. Unrelated. But now…

"It's what we've been debating at the Ministry." Dave shook his head, sharing Ministry information, unusually for him as he kept the two spheres of duty separate with cool, professional ease. "It is believed that someone is co-ordinating the wizards who are carrying this out. A leader. Someone with charismatic influence.

Before anyone had a chance to say anything more on the matter however, the kitchen door swung on its hinges as an apparating wizard arrived violently in the kitchen. Arthur Weasley strode hurriedly through and into the living room.

"You're right, Tonks. They're identical. And I went to another call." He thrust a piece of folded paper in her direction. Nympadora Tonks immediately handed it to James.

"Where did you find this?" He looked at the bedraggled, scorched Mr Weasley before him. "Where? Tell me, Arthur."

"I checked. Lily is still at Petunia's," he began.

"Where?" James insisted.

"Godric's Hollow. The whole village was alight. James, I'm sorry. Your house was one of them."

88888888

Septimus couldn't sleep. The outline of the trees formed shadows against the lead-checked windows and, at three in the morning, he was growing bored of seeing them. Most nights he would wake up, unable to fall asleep.

Some, it had to be said, were the noises from below, in the common room, older students busying themselves with amusements, quidditch talk, Portable Pensieves' applications, talking, chatting and laughing about so many things. And on the rare occasion, studying. Others, Septimus preferred not to think about. At times when his mind drifted to his mother, he could not lie there and try to think. Instead, he wondered about what she was doing, what she might be occupied with so far away on a miniscule island off the West Coast of Norway; what she might be doing. It then drifted to his father. "Still no change" was the message he regularly received. Sometimes it comforted him, but mostly not.

On nights when his parents crossed his mind Septimus chose to sneak out and be away from the school, Dorielle keeping him company and, high above, with the vengeful wind tearing through the air, the chipping and hooting of restless, sleepy and victorious owls (the latter returning with their prey) drowning out the melancholy in his heart. On several occasions he kept his silence in the company of Rufus Lestrange, whose odd presence and arbitrary topics of conversation proved surprisingly consoling.

Frequently it was because he knew his friend wasn't there in the dormitory as but instead, lying ill in the infirmary. Julian wasn't far away and, it was true, that he couldn't actually make him better. But as Rufus said, "medicine isn't always a potion."

Of course Septimus shouldn't get up tonight. Tomorrow he had a test: Level 1 charms. He never did very well with his wand work when he was tired. It had only been a couple of nights ago when he'd fought tiredness long enough to tackle the occlumency homework because the night before he'd gone to sit with Dorielle. But the thought of Julian being ill, being shut away for so long, so bored, so lonely, made him alert: he'd stay with his friend all night if he had to.

No. He mustn't. What trouble would he be in if he was caught? He'd be grounded at the castle. Caelius would find out. No-one would trust him again. Professor Snape might not take him to see his dad.

…Septimus turned over and closed his eyes. And then opened them again. Of course he was going to get up to see him. And of course, he knew he was breaking the rules.

Why _were_ all these children ill? It was a question that Septimus had asked himself several times since Julian had been sent to Madam Pomfrey's care – he wasn't the only one – and a question he was increasingly concerned about. What if he never got better? And what was causing him, and the other students to be ill? According to Darren, there hadn't been any kind of illnesses at Hedgewards for years, not since the Black Death in the fourteenth century, but that was so long ago it didn't really count.

It was a chilly. Frost was spreading across the windows and Septimus pulled on his dressing gown over yesterday's clothes before stealing down to the common room and through the passageway.

And then, a noise behind him made him stop. Septimus knew he shouldn't leave the common room and perhaps he had done so too many times before. Maybe some of the teachers had noticed and were waiting to catch him: the chances were high; he had turned wandering around the castle at night into an almost commonplace activity. He turned slowly.

"Thought you'd go to Jules without me, did you?"

"Daz!" Septimus's exclamation echoed down the outer corridor.

"Shush! Someone will hear you!" Darren hurried closer and strode past Septimus. "Come on, else we'll be caught."

As usual, the infirmary was dark, the outer door unlocked in case of emergencies. Pushing it ajar Septimus wondered how many other students had crept through the interface between the school's realm and that of Madam Pomfrey, searching for friends and loved ones, worried for their health, impatient for their recuperation to be over.

As usual, Julian Scott was asleep. In the long mirror opposite the bed they could see their friend's hunched figure, curled up, his body moving up and down as he slept. Septimus was just about to go around the corner and search for a couple of chairs for them both, so they could wait for their friend's wakening when Darren pulled him back.

"Stop! Look!"

Next to the bed, knees tucked under encircled arms and hands clasping a book, the figure of a girl. In the darklight, Septimus could just about work out who it was.

"What's she doing?"

"Reading."

"I can see that," hissed back Septimus. "But what? And why is Ariella Blewitt here at this time of night?"

"Same reason as us, I s'pose," replied Darren, indifferently. "Look, he'll be awake soon, we can have a chat to him. I've brought him the latest quidditch magazine. I know you've got him something from Honeydukes'. Septimus nodded. He peered back at Ariella. But why was she here? She could read her book in the common room.

At the sound of the boys approaching, Ariella started, freezing momentarily, before scuttling to hide away the book, and wiping tears from her eyes before getting to her feet.

"Ariella! Wait!" Septimus was about to ask her what she was doing, but the girl had taken to her heels and was away. Just then, there was a murmur from the bed.

Darren found another chair and sat on it, ignoring Septimus's unspoken questions about the presence of the girl and instead pulled the rolled out magazine from out of his jacket. It took a few moments for Julian to get himself sitting upright, but when he had, he grinned at his friends.

"McGonagall not grounded you yet, then?"

"Not found us out," said Septimus, shrugging. "Besides, when do we get to see you? We're working all day and there's homework all night." Darren nodded.

"And quidditch, of course," Septimus added. "Always quidditch."

"I think they're going to send us home." Julian's voice was low and rough and he tried to hold back a cough. "I heard Snape talking to Madam Pomfrey. Too many students, non-wizard students, are ill. It's too much of a coincidence." Darren nodded.

"Do you know that there was someone here before we got here?" Septimus nodded towards the door. "She ran off."

"She?" Julian stretched, yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, you mean Ariella?"

"Yes. Ariella." Septimus sounded the words carefully.

"She came to talk to me, she said. Only she didn't say much. I think she was trying to apologise for what her brother called me." Darren and Septimus exchanged looks.

"What did he call you, Jules?" Julian looked between them.

"Misborn."

"You _WHAT_?!" Darren roared the word, and this time it was Septimus who shushed him into silence.

"What?!" Darren hissed fiercly. "How dare he send you threats!"

"Don't…don't do anything," Julian responded. "It'll only make things worse. Especially if we're going anyway."

It was the second time Julian had mentioned this and this time Septimus felt the weight of it. His heart tightened and he felt a pang of sadness. So much he had wanted his best friend to come with him to high school, and now, here he was, ill with something or other, and probably due to go back home in any case. It'd just delayed him getting to a non-wizard school. Not for the first time Septimus had wondered whether he had been selfish.

"Not to worry," said Julian, as if reading Septimus's mind. "If I can't come back, I've had a brilliant time here. Nothing like it in the world. So few non-wizards see inside this place, I bet. And anyway, we're not gone yet. I could be up and about tomorrow singing "Alleluia!" The look on his face, pale and pasty from prolonged illness told Septimus he didn't really believe it could happen.

"I'm just so tired of feeling like this, like I'll never be better, " Julian added, a sombre edge to his voice. "I just can't remember how being well feels."

"It dead boring, without you in lessons with us," said Darren. "Without you, how are we ever going to survive Rufus Lestrange?" Septimus grinned. "How are we ever going to get through boring old "History of Magic?"

"You could try this." Julian leaned over and tried to pick up a large volumed book in his hands but, fumbling, it tumbled back onto the floor. "Bugger!" He shook his head.

"Art of the Wize," read Darren, picking it up. "Art of the Wize?"

"Dunno. It just sounded like a whole load of kids stories," said Julian as Septimus craned his neck to see. In an engraved picture a girl sat, knees folded in on the floor next to a fire, in a pose not dissimilar to Ariella. Above was the word, "Grimelda".

"Grimelda?" Julian shrugged. "Ariella left it. I think it was by accident. Some of the stories are interesting, though. The one about the carnivorous plants growing by the lakes that wafted when people came near, hypnotising them to come closer before strangling and drowning them. Creepy."

"Art of the Wize?" Septimus closed his eyes, imagining the story of "Grimelda." It was just a kids' story in "Mysterious Mythology", an allegory of some lesson to be learned. In Grimelda's case, make sure you wear tight fitting shoes and buy a watch before going off to a ball in a pumpkin carriage.

"Just stories," said Julian. "Not the most thrilling thing in here, but I'm just so bored. That's when I'm not coughing my guts up or too tired to keep my eyes open."

"Here you are, mate," said Septimus, quickly realising he had some sweets in his pocket for Julian. "I asked for your favourite. Mr. Honeyduke himself had to find the jar. I don't think he sells many non-wizard sweets."

"Rhubarb and custard!" Julian's eyes lit up as he eyed the contents of the white paper bag. "Thanks, mate!" He slipped one into his mouth, coughed, leaned forward trying not to choke on the boiled sweet, before leaning back on his pillows and offering the packet to Septimus and Darren.

"Not if they do that to you, Jules," laughed Darren, before taking one anyway, and Septimus took one too. Then he frowned.

"What's on your arm?" Septimus stared at Julian's forearm as his pyjama sleeve pulled upwards. Julian glanced down at the capital "C" enclosed in a circle clearly emblazoned on his skin.

"Wow! A tattoo?" Darren peered closer, before looking back at Julian, the conjurist's symbol clearly visible.

"No, it's just pen. Look." Julian withdrew his arm and spat on it, rubbing at one side, which immediately faded as he rubbed at it.

"But…it's the conjurist's sign, Julian," said Septimus slowly. "The ones who want to kill all the non-wizards…"

"Is it?" Julian frowned. "Oh yes. Ariella did say you should put a line through it. Ha!" Julian grinned, then sank back, closing his eyes.

"Look," Septimus leaned forward towards his friend. "you've got to tell your mum. Would you like me to write to her? I'll ask Uncle Kay if I can go back home too, keep you company. I could – "

He broke off as he noticed a figure lingering in the shadows. Ariella lingered a little longer but then approached. Septimus and Darren exchanged looks.

"Hi," croaked Julian, as he noticed her by the bed.

"Hi," echoed Septimus and Darren. Weird, thought Septimus. One minute she's waiting by his bedside, hares off when she sees us then comes back.

"Look, I have to tell you something." Ariella, her dark eyes large with urgency. "Are you alone?" Both boys nod.

"I've already told Julian, when I came to tell him sorry 'bout Fraser." She glanced momentarily at Darren. "Merlin knows I can't stand him; and I've got to tell someone – " she dropped her voice, " – but, I can trust you, right? You're Julian's friends?"

"Yes, Ariella," said Septimus softly. "You can trust us."

"It's important you don't tell anyone. Not even your uncle," said Ariella, her eyes still insistent. Septimus nodded.

"I don't know what; Fraser and Dad are too careful to let me in on it. But I heard them talking by PP."

"What about?"

"I don't know for sure. But it's big. Big, and it'll happen at Halloween."

"Their Dad's almost for certain a conjurist." Julian filled in the gap.

"And Frazer too," said Ariella.

"Wow." Septimus and Darren looked at one another again. That figured. But why, thought Septimus to himself, was Ariella telling them?

"Mum _is_ trying to do something…"

"Your Mum?" Darren frowned, confused. "But your _brother,_ your _dad_…"

"Yes I know." Ariella sank to the chair next to Julian's bed. Their friend looked at her sympathetically. "That's why Fraser's been ordered to keep his eye on me."

"He pushed you over the edge at the Quidditch match?" Darren added narrative to the image in Septimus's mind.

"No. It was a busy arena. I was trying to get across to Devon; her mum's in the Ministry. To see if she would help us. Fraser got too close, though. If ever Dad finds out what mum's trying to do…" Ariella shook her head, looking at her knees.

"Dad's a conjurist; he believes that the magical should be magical alone, and separate from non magical. He _hates_ your uncle, Septimus," she added, looking across at him.

And there it was. A rebel in the family. He looked at the tiny-framed girl and for the first time Septimus realised how much he'd never guessed about her. How clever she had to hide it all behind a meek and quivering demeanour, making out she was a little mouse, a victim.

"But…they're married? Your mum and dad?" Ariella nodded.

"They seem so happy together. It's as if they keep this one difference between them away from everyone at home. Mum believes we should all live happily together, despite the differences.

"Wow," said Darren, for the second time that night, and then he turned to Septimus. "Hey, it's a bit like, you know, my brother and your sister going out," said Darren, referring to Dudley and Freya. Septimus nodded. An odd arrangement; his wildchild adopted sibling and Darren's straight-laced older brother. They'd said as much in the past when they'd joked together and Septimus now wondered whether they, him, his mum and Freya, even Dad when he got better, could find somewhere to live and take a leaf out of the Blewitts' book.

"I wanted to see how many people would support her, well us actually."

"Support you?"

"Ariella and her mum have set up a group." Julian's voice was dry and throaty, as if his airway was blocking up and he was finding it difficult to talk.

"There's just you and her?" asked Septimus.

"Yes, but mum thinks more people think like we do, and she wants to find them."

"Sounds like the best reason to be creeping around Hedgewards at night," said Darren, archly.

"_We're_ with you," said Julian quickly, a lightness passing over his features.

"We are?" said Septimus.

"Ok, good," said Ariella, her face bright with enthusiasm. "What I need is just to find out who I can talk to about it. See how many people want to join us."

"How many people have you asked?" asked Darren, "apart from Julian, I mean?"

Ariella smiled.

"Two."

88888888

"What would you do for the internship?" In the blackness deep beneath the school one talked to another. Not for the first time these had met. "What would you do?"

There was a long pause. Feet shuffled. A head shifted in the darkness.

"Anything. I'd do anything."


End file.
